


of men

by aeolianharps



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon, M/M, Pretty Canon, or like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeolianharps/pseuds/aeolianharps
Summary: bts canon aralas, plus yearning
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Legolas Greenleaf, Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 21
Kudos: 163





	1. a night past rivendell

**Author's Note:**

> some of the dialogue is verbatim from the book! i like it bc i feel like the relationship exists heartily on its own and just wanted to explore it more w behind the scenes n such. but, yes, not my work at all for those bits of dialogue! and ofc the work itself is all tolkien's world. i happily share for no profit, and makes no claims on the larger work. thanks!
> 
> edit, just finished nov 1 2020: hey!! i wrote this work as i was rereading the books and it was basically just one shots for aralas moments i enjoyed, and grew into a story i wanted to complete. it probably reads like that too, so i thought i'd share. :)

The night is pulsing with those silent shuffles of forest when Aragorn finds himself awoke. Crickets seem to roar in such times; the short-lived shifts of sleeping prey, the gently whipping breeze. He was a Ranger; grogginess hardly stuck to him, and wakening was as stark a transition as flame in the depths of Moria. There was no slow rising sun for him as there was in the lands of hobbits. 

But tonight, he felt a dreariness about him. He felt that sheath of spellbound song surround him and his instinct allowed him to trust. His wizened eyes crinkled with the slightest edge of affection: Legolas was singing.

It was soft - so soft that nearly only another elf should hear it, but Aragorn was elf at heart, and Dunedain in blood. It weaved below the sounds of the forest almost as if filling the discordant sounds and he played Illuvatar. _Now that,_ Aragorn thought, _is a great analogy for so quiet a sound._

But the feeling was real. 

This tired man listened on for some time without interruption, but soon guilt crept into his reverie. Alas, it was time to give Legolas his rest in turn. At the first rustle of his body as it moved erect, the singing ceased.

“Aragorn!” came the urgent whisper, and Aragorn glimpsed the dark black eyes glisten with intensity. “It is not yet your watch.”

“Yes, my friend,” he answered wryly, “but I have no say in this matter.” His voice of men could not be as gentle as that of Legolas, and though careful, he checked the small bodies around them for any stirring. They rested peacefully, and Boromir lay like a log waiting to be cast into the fire.

A perched smile hung about Legolas. “Ah, it is as I’ve heard. The insomnia that afflicts great men on the precipice of their destiny.”

“I would not go as far as that, Legolas,” answered he with warm restraint. His Rivendellian accent lilted through the elf’s name, a reminder of his upbringing. “But may nearly say it is fear.”

This elf was always cool and knowing. He quipped, and leaned his body forward in insistence, “Aye, but do not all men fear destiny?” He smiled, and pulled away to grab a flask of water, which he offered promptly to Aragorn. “Perhaps it is thirst you feel, not fear.”

Much was easily unspoken between these two, which they discovered early on in the Fellowship. Quickly they understood there was a conversation to be had, and silently moved to a safe distance from the camp. As Aragorn took his first sip, he was struck by how incredible it was, every time, to catch Legolas as so youthful. He had his arms wrapped around his legs in innocent repose and sat looking up at the sky, admiring the few stars who could peak out amongst the clouds.

“Many of the stars hide tonight,” he declared. “But I sense their searching for us. Even the sky has some stake in this matter, I fear.”

Aragorn did not doubt it, and nodded to convey it. “Mm, we can only hope their stake lies on our side.”

Legolas’ laugh rang clinquant. “As if the stars could betray us. It is as though an ancestor should lay brambles on your path. They would not.”

It was Aragorn’s turn to laugh. “My own ancestor is the reason our halfling bears such a burden.”

The blonde’s afflicted eyes met the man’s, full of that ironic mirth.

“Yes, well,” he returned slowly, and kindly. “I am sure he did not mean to.” 

There was a fullness of heart in that moment that Aragorn could not quite comprehend. He did not agree with this statement, and yet he believed it. In Legolas was both a childish naivete and ancient wisdom, which vacillated so quickly that it, like optic illusion, could pass one for the other. This naivete now felt like the truest truth.

“Perhaps,” was all he replied, but then carefully, “but either way: there are brambles.”

Legolas sighed. “Yes, there are. What I would give that the whole party had halfling soles with elvish arches, we would ache less.”

“And nothing of dwarf?”  
  
Begrudging amusement lit the elf’s features. “Perhaps their oxlike hardness, as hobbit and elf likewise shake like leaves in wind.”

At Aragorn’s raised eyes, Legolas amended: “Though elves have no need to sit like a boulder in a windstorm, save at the end of the world.”

Aragorn released his surprise into a knowing laugh. “You are right, of course. Elves move with the forest - not against,” and he smirked conspiratorially. “Greenleaf as your namesake, you must.”

Legolas smiled, hugged himself closer, and looked to his partner with a proud neck and soft voice: “I must.”

With that, they enjoyed in silence the rush of wind through the overgrowth above, leaves as if in answer flaking off the branch and off past their camp. In it Aragorn heard a symphony. Legolas heard the Valar themselves.

“And of men?”

Legolas looked at him quizzically.

“You would have the crossbred feet of a hobbit and elf, the sturdy frame of a dwarf - but none is spoken of men.”

“The companionship,” said Legolas breezily, though he looked back at the sky and not Aragorn.

“You would have the companionship of men?” Aragorn sounded bewildered. But his tone shifted into a bemused cool as he said, “I did not know you and Boromir had grown so close -”

Legolas laughed so full throated that it was almost loud. He turned his mirthful gaze onto him, and clasped a hand to his shoulder, his almond black gaze narrowing:

“I speak of only one man.”

A tension rose between their distance but Legolas released his hand and stood up. He looked down at him calmly and began, “I would take Boromir’s freedom,” and as he walked back toward camp, “and give it to you.”

Aragorn sat alone, wading into the first minutes of vigil as Legolas faded into sleep.


	2. the river anduin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ugh! crushes! u know?

When Lothlorien becomes a distant cry, it’s different. Nature became less soft. He can hear the shuffle in the wind, the whispers amongst the leaves. Suddenly there is an aura around Aragorn, protecting him from Legola’s gaze. He keeps his eyes forward, away. 

He cannot pretend that it does not hurt a little.

They go ahead an hour or two to scout, and Aragorn stalks ahead. They exchange no words, though at several times Aragorn looks ready to let out an enormous sigh. Perhaps Legolas could push him, but it is not his nature. He observes he and the surroundings in equal parts, absorbs the information. When they come back to the relieved faces of the company, and explain that they may boat safely on, Aragorn runs quickly off to isolate, as if burned.

It hurts more than a little.

So he contents himself with the friendship of his newfound friends. The halflings have hearts like feather. They lumber so loud through the forest for so small a frame, and yet - their spirits are very opposite in nature. And, even against the vibrant mirth from Merry and Pippin, there is a somber intelligence amongst them that is rare for their youth.

And, despite himself, he finds begrudging respect for his companion Gimli, who lugs through the forest as if it were not so unlike the mines, as if he is not entirely out of his element. 

As for Boromir, he tries. But so unlike the others, Boromir has grown a dark and individual burden, and Legolas can feel that his waterclear gaze is overwhelming. He watches from a distance, only, for his sake.

So, he thinks. He will be content.

But it is hard. It is hard to see the tightness of this mission constrict the spirits of his fellows. It is hard to ignore the haunting shadow of that creature Gollum, always lurking. To trust in their fellowship when it is breaking.

He looks to Aragorn, leading intently, and breathes in the clarity of the Anduin river as his blood requires. Gimli looks ahead with wide, glimmering eyes. Legolas can’t help but smile. His heart warms thinking of Galadriel - to see Gimli’s indiscriminating love for all which is beautiful.

He wades through the water, which hugs at the oar. This has been the easiest leg so far. So, of course, he is on edge. Where the rest gawp at the coming cliffs, he scans around him, looks for movement at the treeline. They are easy targets.

There is no movement. It is almost worse, as his eyes cannot confirm his instinct. He worries at his lip as he redirects his gaze to the water. He finds Aragorn turned and looking at him. He looks troubled - then, bows his head and turns away.

“Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the Kings!' he cries to the company. “We shall pass them soon. Keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can! Hold the middle of the stream!”

The forests had dwindled and made way to sheer cliffs, and suddenly they were swept into the rush of the river. Calm and intent, Legolas navigates the waters, catching glimpses of the ferocity of Boromir, and liberation of Aragorn, who, loudly, begins rejoicing at the faces of his ancestors. 

“Fear not!” he says repeatedly, to the hobbits cowered in their boats. Like standing in darkness, and then, at once, beneath the two trees of Valinor, he changes, and leads them to shore.

A rush of awe and melancholy sweeps through Legolas’ heart. Humans, even Dunedain, are so difficult to hold. They are still enough to admire before a great journey - and, during, already gone, like a brief rain on a hot day, which evaporates into nothing.

Gone are the days of Strider.

His heart feels heavy, sticky, as they make camp. He spends his watch alone, though more than once Aragorn stirs.

Legolas meditates how to clear the muck. It is something even the Anduin cannot wash out.


	3. the flight of three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> orcs

Orcs. The great battle cry gurgles from their mouths, the whirr of arrows snapping like halfling necks through the woods. _Frodo_. He breaks into a sprint, rushes to camp. Gimli stands alone with his axe, swinging mightily against the great horde. There is no time to look for others: only to face the onslaught. He winds up and flings arrow after arrow till they are spent, Gimli at his feet. They push through the slick skins.

The great horn of Boromir sounds, but they are swarmed yet. Alarm flickering in his eyes, Legolas pulls out his longsword and slashes deftly in. _Where is Frodo? The others?_ An orc roars with wild eyes toward him, straight into the edge of his sword. _Where is Aragorn?_

The sea subsides. At some beckon or call, the last few retreat. Legolas wonders how many more waited beyond the hills. “Quickly,” he says to Gimli, the echo of the horn loud in his head. He runs swiftly there, Gimli storming behind.

It is such a sharply sweet sight when there he finds slain orcs, and the silhouette of Aragorn’s breathing - bless Illuvatar - _breathing_ body crouched over Boromir. He is alive, but only he. It is a win deftly beaten down by this loss. Aragorn says what they know already: Boromir must be laid to rest.

Where are the hobbits? Gimli is dismayed, shouting pointlessly into the forest. Legolas only now sees the tears dried to Aragorn’s cheeks. He bows his head.

“Alas!” Legolas places his hand on his shoulder. “'We have hunted and slain many Orcs in the woods, but we should have been of more use here. We came when we heard the horn, but too late, it seems.” He sees how Aragorn winces sharply at the pressure from his hand, and says softer: “I fear you have taken deadly hurt.”

“Boromir is dead.” Aragorn does not look up, but his head drops at Legolas’ strengthening grip. “I am unscathed, for I was not here with him.” His voice is raw, aching. “He fell defending the hobbits, while I was away upon the hill.”

With this, the splitting open of Aragorn, he set himself. And, looking to Gimli, whose eyes are beset with tears he will not let fall, they share a bow that agrees. They will avenge him. Quickly Legolas cares to Boromir’s body, as Gimli arranges one of their boats - had they only just been soaring in them yesterday? - and Aragorn, passively, intent in some other land, follows.

When the boat is alight, orange against the bright blue of the water, Aragorn sings a velvet requiem. When he has finished, he looks to Legolas, who full-heartedly obliges, and sings in shades of green and light. Gimli looks between them both, and when he insists he will not sing, Aragorn laughs in one biting huff.

“That is as it should be,” he assures. “In Minas Tirith they endure the East Wind, but they do not ask it for tidings. But now Boromir has taken his road, and we must make haste to choose our own.”

“And what shall our road be?” Legolas asks, eyes afixed to him. He would follow.

Gimli joins: “Aye, we have a hard choice. Who of our halfling friends should we hope to save?”

Again, bitterly, a laugh, as Aragorn remarks at the ill fate to make such a decision. But he is quick. They will follow the orcs, and leave Frodo to his fate. They are bounded, engaged, and leave no time to further deliberate, darting like wisps into the night. Running onward, and onward, the Anduin beating past like a clock, as the sun rises crimson.

Legolas eagerly gains the trail, sprinting on, determined to find Merry and Pippin. Determined to complete their task, to serve the greater good. He sees the grimness fade from Aragorn the further they grate on, so he goes faster. Gimli, stout and strong, keeps up, and embraces the challenge.

It is not till the next evening falls that they must decide to go on. Gimli’s calves burn worse than their hearts at the thought of their lost companions. But Legolas, anxious for the halflings, and unwilling to let darkness fall yet again onto Aragorn, says, “My heart bids me go on.” He looks to Aragorn, who seems suspended in the wind of their journey, leaning still forward: “But we must hold together. I will follow your counsel.”

And there it returns, that darkness like a cloak: “You give the choice to an ill chooser. Since we passed through the Argonath my choices have gone amiss.”

Gimli and Legolas give him no answer, and wait. After some silence, and a gaze fixed onto the sky, he speaks, and he says it certainly.

“We will not walk in the dark.”

With what little joy is left in their party, Gimli exults, collapsing happily into the grass and falling quickly to sleep. Aragorn sighs, and lies down some feet away, nearly impercetible in the black of night, save for Legolas’ eyes, and the stars shifting in the navy sky. 

Legolas walks over, and sits beside him. He is silent, casting silver nets out into the aether, awaiting any catch. Gimli snores softly behind them. He can feel in his veins, his spirit, that Merry and Pippin are in danger. But there is nothing to be done till dawn.

His heart, roiling in the net, aches to heal the man beside him.

He looks beside him. A cloud has parted, and pale moonlight ebbs on and off his visage, giving him a glimpse. Not yet the King, or conqueror. Again, his Strider. His eyes are wet, and expression forlorn.

After some time, he says grimly: “Boromir was not free.”

The clouds grow thicker. Aragorn is shades of grey. And Legolas, he imagines, must be only auric, and dark feeling. He continues:

“None of us are free while the Ring is in power.”

Legolas holds these words closely. Examines them as the fully bloomed creatures they are. Then, slowly, “Even as the Anduin flows in one direction, you may choose whether to sail.”

And as the wind weaves past like spinning silk, he adds, with more vehemence: “Would it not soften Sauron's evil to say he did not choose? And yet also lessen Boromir’s sacrifice.” His eyes sharpen, keen and alert. He places his hand to Aragorn’s forehead, pressing the hair back.

“And though you walk a destined path, is it not your choice to walk it?”

He can feel Aragorn grimace against his palm. The warmth of Aragorn’s hand encapsulates his as he enfolds them together.

“My good Legolas.”

With this pull, the elf twists, hands wrapped to the ranger, their noses a hair apart.

Aragorn leans up. But Legolas is not selfish. Where the hurt seems to gather in so many wrinkles and tamped veins, at that temple which seemed to twitch even now with doubt, he leans softly down to press a kiss, and, beneath his lips, the stress depresses.

At Aragorn’s sigh, Legolas lies back down, hands still intertwined.

His good Legolas.

So much has changed, Legolas doesn't know what to call him in turn. Aragorn, simply, but his Lord now, or King? But then there was also Beloved, meleth nìn, Meleth e-guilen.

At last: " _Hodo vae, pen vaelui_."

It is worth it to hear his laugh. It is better when his hand grips tight and ungiving.

Aragorn lies on his side, lips to Legolas' ear. He returns a soft kiss to his temple, and Legolas feels his chest rise sharp and full with a pleasant and sudden warmth. 

It was natural, like the distance closed on its own. Perhaps, even, Legolas had only leaned his head closer.

It doesn't seem to matter either way.

As Aragorn drifts to sleep, he mumbles into his ear.

" _Avo visto_."

Legolas does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hodo vae, pen vaelui  
> sleep tight horndog, or,literally, "rest well, lusty one"
> 
> Avo visto  
> dont leave, or,literally, "do not stray"


	4. riders of rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tree tension

The next day they come across the honeydewed fields of Rohan, the verdancy bringing new life to their company. Legolas brightens as if a fresh bud at springtime, and a lightness envelops them, even with the dark tasks at hand. And, soon in the distance, they catch sight of a great army of men.

Aragorn declares it first: “Riders! Many riders on swift steeds are coming towards us!'

Legolas looks beyond him, staring intently. With all casualness, he adds: “Yes. There are one hundred and five. Yellow is their hair, and bright are their spears. Their leader is very tall.”

The Ranger looks to him, fondly grinning. “Keen are the eyes of the Elves.”

He looks satisfied with himself, and, nearly blushing, protests: “Nay! The riders are little more than five leagues distant -”

Gimli clears his throat. “Five leagues or one,” begins he loudly, “'We cannot escape them in this bare land. Shall we wait for them here or go on our way?'

They shake themselves of their fondness, and look to him. It is a wise point, and Aragorn decides they shall wait. He assures them that they lack cruelty, but, as they surround them with pointed bows, Legolas grows weary. He trusts few, and even Aragorn’s recommendation could not overpower his will to protect him first. Gimli is cross-examined, and, when his life is threatened, Legolas lights ablaze with that ancient and righteous anger, bow ready:

“He stands not alone,” and baring his teeth: “You would die before your stroke fell.”

Their captors swell at the movement, and anxiously Aragorn jumps in front of him, grabbing his wrist firmly, and holding him behind his back. “Your pardon, Eomer!” When Legolas struggles less, he lets go, the warmth fading from his hand. 

Gimli nods his thanks, and Aragorn, setting aside his pleading eyes from the elf and to their new party, assures them of their good intentions, engaging the full power of his position with such aplomb as to shock Gimli and Legolas alike. As he names himself the heir of Isildur, Legolas can see a white light strike off him and out into the gathered horses, out into the horizon.

A sure securer for goodwill.

So, with advice against pursuing their halfling friends into Fangorn, they leave in peace, to pursue their halfing friends, anyway, into Fangorn, Legolas and Gimli discomfited at this display, and Aragorn brooding into the dark covering.

When they reach a clearing, Gimli offers to collect deadwood. Legolas, wondrous at the full teem of life around him, stands tall and listens.

But as soon as the dwarven steps have faded from the clearing does he feel a hand at his waist, and himself pressed firmly against the trunk of a great tree. He startles, knowing it is no threat - it is Aragorn, and yet -

Anger strikes through his eyes and into Legolas’ heart. “You risk your life for pride? And not even your own?” He is whispering, but his words are roughly dismayed, as if holding back a great fire.

Legolas’ sharp eyebrows set, and, even caged as he is, he folds his arms. “Gimli has more honor than all hundred of them. I did not risk my life, but they, theirs.”

Aragorn groans. “There were over a hundred men, Legolas. You meant to slay them all over an insult!” His voices narrows bitterly. “And they say that elves are wise.”

He furrows his brows, and pushes Aragorn’s arms from him, quipping, “And that men are brave.”

Aragorn, blinking, falls back, but his eyes are deadly serious as he keeps his gaze trained upon him. “It is not worth your life, Legolas. _Please_.” There is a desperation there that is new, and foreign. Legolas has no understanding of how to look at it, or hold it, as if it is a hot coal still among the fire. And whatever vulnerable space this shock and intensity unveils, Aragorn is back on him, grabbing his head gruffly. 

“Please.”

They are so close. Legolas searches his eyes for that burning ember, and they are aflame, and - 

A rush of wind fills a vaccuum between them: the sound of dwarven feet returning. Aragorn rushes to grab the wood from his hands, and Legolas, mind running, leans back for support.


	5. fair-haired eowyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> & gimli's pissed

After Gandalf has unveiled himself to them, the time passes doggedly past the company. They do not laugh anymore. And despite the crisp joy of their reunion, Legolas feels as though he is suffocating in the smogged airs of Saruman’s power - how the spirit of the forest has been weighed down so heavily. Aragorn seems engaged only to the forward march, and - occasionally - to debrief with Gandalf. He is quite changed the more their company grows - the more his destiny approaches. He speaks to all but he, and so seriously, that Legolas feels quite removed.

Together, he and Gimli pad on behind as less important players. When he aches for freshness in his limbs, he runs ahead, and speaks only to announce any coming brambles.

When they have crossed out and into the fields toward Rohan, the tension wades off him and returns itself to the forest. Each obstacle feels almost a nuisance, less than a real challenge. In the Golden Hall standing weaponless, he feels edgeless and bored, and, when the Theoden King returns, it feels a small notch in the remarkable path their party has tread. 

Aragorn speaks not a word while they are spun into shining armor, and made ready for war, but he smiles all the while so sweetly to the golden haired Eowyn, who brings him each mail and guard with shy and seeking eyes. Remarkably, in this dark and heavy mood, he hears the tinkling of Aragorn’s laugh, warm and welcoming. He flinches, and wishes for once that he had always been so densely clothed as Gimli, as he watches him head out before them.

Jealousy is not so natural for elves, who have eternities, and still not enough time to ponder the beauty found in their own grottos. But it exists nonetheless. Especially for those who stray into the mortal world.

And perhaps it isn't even jealousy as it should be. Rather, Legolas felt keenly the barriers that were so distant before.

Aragorn was not only bound to another, but abounded in admiration. In aid, in comfort, and, soon - in glory.

And so, in short, Legolas was not needed anymore. Not in that way.

And with that, that almost-dreamt-of sprout of affection was suddenly ungrowing, like a tree swallowed in ivy. It had been stretching toward the light, but nature now begged it to shrink.

When the last of the armor has been set unto him, Legolas turns sharply away. More than anything, he wants be rid of this garb of men, and all else to do with them.

When he escapes at last outside, Gimli is barking jovially to Eomer over the broiling wind. A grey and turbulent sky is set against a dim green valley; the starkest color comes from the deep browns of the great steeds awaiting their riders. When Legolas feels the movement of the wind, he frowns. It holds the blistering cry of the east.

“I will forget my wrath for awhile, Eomer son of Eomund,” says Gimli, with no real anger in his voice, “but if ever you chance to see the Lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end.”

Eomer laughs heartily. “So be it! But until that time pardon me, and in token of pardon ride with me, I beg. Firefoot, my horse, will bear us both, if you will.”

Legolas watches an errant unease pass into the dwarf. Gimli looks to him.

“I thank you indeed,” and he seems truly honored. “I will gladly go with you, only, though - if Legolas, my comrade, may ride beside us.”

He feels it as the comfort it is intended to be. The wind seems to beat less brutally, and the armor borne more easily. He softens and bows his head.

“It shall be so!” says Eomer, amenable as ever. “Legolas upon my left, and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare to stand before us!”

Aragorn has come out at this calling, and walks past them silently. 

As he makes toward his horse, Legolas watches Gimli pass with Eomer atop his horse, with his head turned around to Aragorn, and he feels almost to catch him glaring.


	6. helm's deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but deeper

It is wrong to say, but Helm’s Deep, at first, almost feels like a reprieve. In all the waiting and running, finally: to face the enemy, and Legolas is not unskilled with a bow. He feels the energy mounting and rearing up out of Gimli, and he is grateful for his presence - even says as much, in this dark, forbidden fortress. And when the orcs come like schools of minnows against the high walls, they climb through the long darkness by counting kills and making games of it.

But the men. Their weariness sets in, and Legolas feels that he is two against thousands, with Gimli hewing orc necks beside him, and - suddenly! - alarmed: he feels their looming breath at their backs: the orcs have waded through the stream, and fixed themselves to a section left undefended in their zeal to protect the centerwall. He swivels his head. It is in moments like these that unexpected turns may occur.

_Where is Aragorn?_

It is as though Gimli hears him. He roars this time, jumping and soaring his sword into the back of a coming orc - and just as quickly removes it, and motions Legolas to follow his retreat. He strikes an orc who clings to Legola’s cloak, and pulls away from the swarm licking at their feet. He shouts, “Ao-oi! The orcs are behind the wall! Come, Legolas! There are enough for both of us.”

Gimli continues their game as they defend within, but the intensity has heightened. It is a world of dark shifting shadow and searing flaming light, both capable of killing. He has only one arrow left, and there is an endless oncoming. Legolas drops his bow and wields his knife, slashing and heaving. _Twenty one!_ he hears in the thrall, and he, with uncharacteristic short breath,“Good! but my count is now two dozen,” to a great groan and roar, and then -

 _Aragorn._ It is him. Eomer stands just off beside him, and - 

There is a great boom of trumpets, stampeding through the air, and a flashing light as the orcs blast through and pour in once more, right in front of the pair. Gimli is awares as well, and looks anxiously at Legolas, and back to his foe, and yells, “Up!” casting his helmeted head toward the risen wall behind them.

Legolas nods sharply, jumps and struggles to the high parapet, feet scratching along the rock. He prepares his last arrow, eyeline steady over the shoulder of Aragorn for the first to come, and watching as, surehandedly, Aragorn lifts the sword Anduril to hold them back. The one moment, they squeal in fear, and, the other, Aragorn is making a dash toward the stairs. Quickly they swim toward him, and Legolas’ last arrow keeps the first off his back, jumping down and running to meet him in battle, where they tousle fiercely to get to the door, and - struggling - close it.

Bodies sore against the door, Aragorn closes his eyes for a respite. “Things go ill, my friend.”

“Ill enough,” Legolas returns shortly. He searches Aragorn’s weary face, and sighs. “But not yet hopeless, while we have you with us.”

When he opens his eyes, they meet like rocks skidding across ice and crashing in the middle. Legolas pulls away, the enemy pounding against their shoulders. “Where is Gimli?”

Aragorn stares awhile longer, but gives up. The moment is gone, and they are at war. “I do not know. I last saw him fighting on the ground, but the enemy swept us apart.”

He grimaces. He had allowed himself to risk Gimli, all to save Aragorn with one sole arrow? He did not regret it but he did not know satisfaction either.

“Alas!” He moves sternly away from the door, a group of cowering boys with wooden swords moving out of his way. “That is ill news.”

The ranger follows, an uncertainty in him: “He is stout and strong. Let us hope he will escape back to the caves,” he tries to assure. “There he would be safe for awhile. Safer than we.”

When Legolas does not respond, but moves, agitated, in search of far flung arrows, Aragorn continues: “Such a refuge would be to the liking of a dwarf.”

The elf stops suddenly, and looks at him. “That must be my hope. Gimli, son of Gloin, may be my last companion in this realm, before I cross.” He attempts a smile, and says, almost croaking, “We must go to Fangorn, after -”

Aragorn’s face transforms, as his eyes turn down and grow with feeling. “Legolas, I -”

“I must go and seek some arrows,” he returns quickly. And with his back to Aragorn, he cries, “Would that this night would end, and I could have better light for shooting!”


	7. reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snooze n smoke w the fellowship

After the battle is won, Legolas is decided. Aragorn has a much different destiny, and is no longer the free Ranger from before. He will move forward, as it is needed. 

He finds a true relief in this decision, and his spirits lighten. He spends the greater part of the trip to Isengard planning with Gimli, and giving himself a reason to stay after the war. Perhaps it is the elf in him, or the win at Helm’s Deep, but he truly believes there is an end. In his long years, he has learned how times of peace can be fine, but - mostly - exceptionally lonely. He has learned well how people leave and journey on, like a leaf passing in the wind. 

They plod on. It is hot. Gandalf, even, comments, and Legolas begs to know if he feels it too: the throbbing of the forest. It is suffocating.

Aragorn attempts, once, to ask after his wellbeing, and Legolas bows his head, smiling coolly. “Do not worry yourself, _Edhelharn_.” The Sindarin formality slips from him easily, like hiding amongst shadows. So stark is the response, he almost regrets it - seeing how his face twists, brow heavily furrowed and shoulders back, stung. 

But, he is decided. He will move forward, as it is needed.

Legolas, still bowing, lets his horse fall behind. 

The earlier relief shreds down his shoulders and shivers out of his body, like his soul is rejecting it. He wants to love him and hurt rather than feel this. But he knows there is more than this moment to hurt. For him, there is an eternity.

He feels suddenly a warmth: a hand on his arm, and looks back. Gimli’s begins, gruffly, “I will endure Fangorn,” his eyes moving uncertainly about the foliage surrounding them, “if I have your promise to come back to the caves and share their wonder with me.”

The elf swings his opposite arm to clasp Gimli’s in turn, a soft smile returning, and Gimli looks relieved: “You have my promise.” And, with that little warmth of comfort, the party stops. “But alas! Now we must leave behind both cave and wood for awhile." Aragorn is far ahead, and away. Legolas forces a smile. "How far is it to Isengard, Gandalf?’

-

It can be little denied that hobbits weave airs of ease wherever they go. And what a relief, that rather than Saruman’s silver ice, they came rather upon the golden warmth of their company. As if dreaming, they dote on each other in a near-daze. Aragorn is placing Pippin’s lost brooch upon him, as Gimli declares, “The cutting of the bands on your wrist, that was smart work!”, to which Legolas adds mirthfully, “And set us a pretty riddle. I wondered if you had grown wings!”

And as they listen happily to Merry and Pippin’s tale, knowing the ending is to their liking, Gimli sits on the grass, midway between Aragorn and Legolas. He is all engaged, leaning over himself to listen, axe tossed to the side. Legolas has stationed himself on a boulder, one leg up and propping his elbow, the other hanging below. And Aragorn, across, wraps himself tightly in his cloak, his back sloping into the trunk of a tree. He stretches his legs long and shudders into ease, allowing the exhaustion of the journey to envelop him. 

Ordained with the hobbit pipeweed, he listens half-lidded, smoke pouring out languidly.

“Look!” says Pippin eagerly, when Merry has finished his tale. “Strider the Ranger has come back!”

He chuckles, and sneaks a look toward Legolas. “He has never been away.” He takes a drag. “I am Strider and Dunadan too, and I belong to Gondor and to the North.”

Legolas responds to Aragorn’s eyes with the intensity of his desire flipped anxiously on its head; instead, he starts up from his spot. Thankfully, Gimli does too, for some chance of timing, though he does so with more calm. The dwarf sputters, only now noticing the pipe barely concealed in Aragorn’s cloak: “Is there no extra pipe in all your plunder?” 

Pippin laughs, and fumbles about his pockets, handing Gimli his own. “Does this settle the score between us?”

Nearly weeping, Gimli cries, “Settle it! Most noble hobbit, it leaves me deep in your debt.”

Under the commotion, and the displacement of Gimli, Aragorn has set his eyes on the poor elf startled up from his seat. The hobbits and dwarf are in full throes, and the energy begs that the other two settle in. Legolas urges past the pull. 

“Well, I am going back into the open air, to see what the wind and sky are doing!”

Without a beat, Aragorn returns: “We will come with you.”

And, after all, he is a King. The others hear and follow with glee, running out past the stones and debris to look at the sprawling valley, and the way the mist dances with the wind.

When they are all ahead, delighting at the view below, Legolas looks forlorn toward the mangled roots at the forest’s edge. 

“ _Must I now call you Prince?_ ” 

Aragorn walks close, and speaks in their shared tongue. Blonde locks drop and sway as Legolas turns his head, unable to hide the knowing in his eyes. 

“ _I will always be Legolas. But you cannot be Strider for very long._ ” And as he walks away, Aragorn deftly pulls him near. The trio are still puffing smoke out toward the horizon, a veil between them.

He switches to the common tongue, quieter, holding Legolas’ face close to his. “Then rest with me _now,_ ” - with more urgency - “while I may.”

Legolas yearns for home. So much more than he had ever thought to. Not because Mirkwood needs him now, or that it is where he hopes to be: but that in being denied now that home he sees in Aragorn’s eyes, he desperately yearns for another. Displaced, far from comfort, and knowing that his heart is being thawed only so it can be squeezed, and maimed.

He grimaces. But it is already throbbing and beating full verve. It is too late to save it.

So when Aragorn lies down, and motions Legolas to him, he follows. And when Aragorn lays his head upon his shoulder, he sighs, and folds his own hand through the grey cloak and into his, rough and warm. And Aragorn, amidst the weak and the weary, grips back strong, and nearly desperate. Legolas feels like he is watering a plant that will die at first frost. And yet, when he looks at Aragorn’s rough hewn face like oak soften against his shoulder and the lure of sleep, he thinks of his words after Moria. We must do without hope. 

He thinks how doomed they must be. _We must do without hope_. His breathing against his side is the loudest thing around them. The others have long since joined them, relaxed - though maybe a little somber - smoking quietly. He is thankful they do not say a word. He is thankful, too, that Aragorn is too tired to speak. Perhaps, his brain begs against his heart, this moment can pass like a dream.

When at last the meditative moments of puffing smoke flitting through streaks of sun has faded back into reality, Gimli looks most sympathetically to Legolas. Pippin and Merry, in their element, look smilingly upon the two, and it seems the only ones uncertain of them are Aragorn and Legolas themselves. The heir to Isildur is still softly snoozing when Merry breaks, “Where is Gandalf? I wonder what he is doing.” 

His head rises awake, and he looks about. 

“The afternoon is getting on. Let us go and look round!” Merry sees his risen face, and smiles. “Ah, you can enter Isengard now at any rate, Strider, if you want to.” He leads them back out from their haven, and Aragorn detaches himself from Legolas unabashedly, rubbing his face.

Merry adds, further away: “But you may prefer to stay as such. It is not a very cheerful sight!”

When they have untangled themselves, Aragorn does not smile. He looks at Legolas directly, thoughtfully, like it is a map he may one day wander without. He regards him brazenly even as Legolas looks away. Pippin was not too far behind Merry, and Gimli follows, frowning as he passes, which the elf honors as a welcome reminder. He moves abruptly to follow, but Aragorn quickly rises and captures his hand, pulling him back gently. When Legolas has turned to him, he pulls his hand to his cheek.

Legolas, if not by will then by instinct, turns into those eyes, and melts just enough to run his thumb across his face - if only out of curiosity. Grateful to be watered, and bitter to know the coming winter. Aragorn's hand is on his waist, pulling him close, and he cannot stand it: if he will wilt, then let today be a deluge.

He pulls him in completely, hands gripping behind his neck, in that hot nape hidden beneath thick locks of brown, chests etched into the other like droplets trying to merge, landing his lips upon his eagerly, openly, as one who knows the briefness of love intimately. His anger at Rohan expels forth with a brashness, flashing into his fear at Helm's Deep that melts into desperation, their faces swirling and twisting for a new vantage. His yearning, as kisses rolling up his neck - his love, his hand upon his chest.

When he pulls away, Aragorn swoops in for one long singing note of a kiss, like something unsaid. 

And it feels like completement, and it feels extinguished so fast. They know they must go, that their time had ended with Merry's last puff of smoke. And as if seeing it in Legolas' eyes, Aragorn turns his face back, and kisses harder before pulling away forcefully, his eyes flashing like a storm.

"While we may," he mutters, as he walks away. "While we may."


	8. fellowship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> imma back! this is kinda the slow bit before it becomes a race to the finale

The voice of Saruman was like a stealthy cold weaving a net around their hearts and Legolas is as eager as anybody to leave the barren tower with its high walls and metal spikes. It is then a treat of utmost delight when Gandalf introduces them to the Ents. Legolas, Aragorn, and Gimli stand in awe, as the elf tilts his head in joyful fascination. 

Treebeard knows his kind well. “So you have come all the way from Mirkwood, my good Elf? A very great forest it used to be!”  
  
“And still is,” he returns with gentle pride. “But not so great that we who dwell there ever tire of seeing new trees.” He is beaming, perhaps for the first time since Rivendell. Or perhaps he is lying to himself. It has felt so dark, but now he speaks like a child, waving his hands: “I should dearly love to journey in Fangorn’s Wood. I scarcely passed beyond the eaves of it, and I did not wish to turn back.”

The old Ent returns his joy. “I hope you may have your wish, ere the hills be much older.”

Legolas easily forgot his company, but places now a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “I will come, if I have the fortune. I have made a bargain with my friend that, if all goes well, we will visit Fangorn together - by your leave.”

“Any Elf that comes with you will be welcome.”

His grip tightens. “The friend I speak of is not an Elf. I mean Gimli, Gloin’s son here.” He puffs his chest out slightly, and Gimli bows low, his axe slipping from its holster.

Aragorn stands aside, arms crossed, with a nonplussed look about him. He gives a light but uncertain smile when Gimli bows. Gandalf seems tickled, like a parent watching children play too seriously their silly games.

“Hoom, hm!” bellows the Ent in confusion, “Ah now, a dwarf and an axe-bearer! Hoom! I have good will to Elves; but you ask much. This is a strange friendship!”

“Strange it may seem, but while Gimli lives I shall not come to Fangorn alone.” Rarely does his age show so well, but the fire of his will flashes in his eyes, something deep and strong. He is too focused to know the strange mix of jealousy and pride in Aragorn’s eyes as he watches this display, so he continues: “His axe is not for trees, but for orc-necks.”  
  
“Hoo! Come now.” He lets out a deep, slow chuckle. “That is a better story. And this man will come too?”

Reality slices in most unwelcome, and Legolas shakes his head all too fast. He smiles emptily, but bravely, and says, “No, he will be quite busy as our King.”  
  
This means nothing to Treebeard, but he hmm’s and haa’s all the same, as if apprising. Legolas cannot look into Aragorn’s eyes. 

“Well, well, things will go as they will, hm? And there is no need to hurry to meet them. But now we must part for awhile.” He turns himself, slowly, achingly, toward the hobbits, and they make their goodbyes. The old Ent even sings for them a verse, legato and warm. Gimli readjusts his axe and bows his head to Legolas. Aragorn steels his jaw.

Just as soon as he is ready to feel sorrow for himself, he feels the hot eastern wind blow in through the edge of the forest, and remembers Frodo and Sam. He is too in tune, too wise, even, to avoid feeling, sensitivity - but he is likewise too wise to mourn or mope, too long. In dark times like these, it becomes necessary to forget about all life after the present moment.

There is only now. There is only this battle. There is only getting by.

When he looks up, Aragorn is regarding the grass below, deep and serious and forlorn. His eyes move slowly and openly up to meet his.

They blink, and nod: as if to say, I too am sorry.

-

So they are warriors once more. Of course, love weaves its way into war just as well as swords and vipers do. When they thunder into Rohan and Aragorn asks that any should ride with him to war, it is, of course, Legolas whose cry rings first:

“I for one!” he says, instead of

 _Fangorn will be like a funeral without you._ _Gimli goes with me to manage my mourning._

“And Gimli with him!” echoes the dwarf, whose love is constant.

Even Merry, now so sober, insists to join, and the rest of Legolas that is still innocent could solemnize forever that this hobbit now has battle in his blood.

Aragorn is respectful, but militant. More burdened the more they move.

“It is dark before me. Many hopes will wither in this bitter Spring.”

In Rivendell, this would have weighed them down. Now it adds to their grievance, and fire. They prepare their horses to depart, ere riding long into the night till overcome by strangers. Merry steels his arm over his dagger, and Legolas forgets all hopes of keeping his innocence. Perhaps long lost since Fangorn.

“We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn!” bellows the voice - a man - and great.

“And you have found him also!” Aragorn’s voice, which had been so pale, becomes once more robust. “Halbarad! Of all joys this is the least expected!” It is like a shade of Death falls from him. Grinning, he jumps from his horse, in unison, as the two men embrace boldly and wholly. 

Legolas watches with a somber fondness, the way they say goodbye to those black masted ships melting into the golden sun toward Valinor. A little jealous, a little hurt, and achingly grateful. Gimli is the only one whose hand remains on his weapon, though the sin is shielded by Legolas’ frame.

Aragorn insists that Halbarad’s party is welcome, and Theoden echoes it with as much joy. Legolas smiles thinly at each of them in turn, bowing his head, an image of peace slicked onto his face. Aragorn explains, loudly, to them all, that he wished for nothing more this night than his brethren, and Halbarad hands him a folded black cloth covered in strings. He explains:

“It is a gift I bring you from the Lady of Rivendell. She sends word to you. The days now are short. Either our hope cometh, or hopes end. Therefore I send thee what I have made for thee. Fare well, Elfstone!”

Aragorn pauses very long, his head hanging low, as if the air dripped with molasses. He holds the pendant like it is a pool of water, and stares for her reflection.

After some time, he abruptly, and decidedly, hands it back. “Now I know what you bear. Bear it still for me a while!” His voice is strong, but he sounds burnt at the edges. His horse pulls out ahead amongst his brethren. He rides, staring out at the North Star, and does not speak another word the whole night long.

Legolas is no fool. He sees the lady of Rivendell, how her long hair is a wreathe of constellations in the sky. He cannot even say she is mocking him. He too is in awe of her beauty. He too wants the sky to win past the darkness.

And, with that, they spend many grey days apart. 

-

  
  


He is comforted, almost, by the normalcy of their journey. His duty to Aragorn is served, and he is no recluse; his new friendships consume him still in quiet joy. As they journey, he and Gimli wake Merry every morning with a new nickname: yesterday, Master Sluggard; today, Hobbiton Snorer. 

“It is now near noon,” he scolds warmly, as the small figure stretches long and yawns. The poor hobbit has grown weaker and weaker without his companion, but he says instead with a great sigh,

“Where is Aragorn?”  
  
Legolas answers promptly; he has been up and awares all morning. “In a high chamber on the Burg. He has not rested nor slept, I think.”

Merry waits for something more.

“He went thither some hours ago, saying that he must take thought, and only Halbarad went with him.” His brows furrow. “Some dark doubt or care sits on him.”

Gimli adds, eagerly, “They are strange men, these newcomers! Worn like weathered rocks, and silent.”

“But even as Aragorn they are courteous, when they break their silence,” he says.

“Why have they come?” Merry asks, darkly curious. “Have you heard?”

The dwarf nearly scoffs. “They answered a summons, as you heard! _Aragorn has need of his kindred_ , they heard, and rode to Rohan!” He pouts a moment, his red beard barely hiding the frown carved into his face. “Now why did we not wish for some of our own kinsfolk, Legolas?”  
  
But Legolas is troubled, the eastern wind blowing like a horn. He thinks of Halbarad. He thinks of his smallness.

His eyes flicker against the cold white sun, and his heart sinks.

“I do not think that any would come.”

-

They three live in waves of joy and despair, and each process the vacillations to task. Gimli complains bitterly when he is overwhelmed by yearning for his people. Merry sleeps often, and too much, when worry for his brothers consumes him. Legolas seeks ridges, edges, high points, and looks out often into the distance, as if he will see some sudden change, as if he can do more. 

He cannot avoid Aragorn. Everybody seems just as preoccupied with him as he is. Eomer asks first, over dinner, abruptly, as he surveys the neighboring tables of rangers: “But where is Aragorn? His place is empty and he has not eaten.”

There is no time to answer. At that moment, hooves patter outside, and noise erupts. The three slowly ease from their seats, and tumble out the hall to see. 

Theoden has come in on horseback, with Merry on a pony at his side. They are but feet away. He sees Aragorn at Theoden’s feet, holding the reigns of his horse, head bowed. Halbarad stands behind like a reaper. 

Eomer gasps sharply, exhaling in some shock or dismay. “They are leaving! I must make haste,” and quickly leaves their side. Besides the last shuffles of men, and the huffs of the steeds, there is nothing to distort Aragorn when he speaks.

“I am troubled in mind, lord.” When his face lifts up, it is pale, and grim. He closes his eyes painfully. “By your leave, lord, I must take new counsel for myself and my kindred. I will ride east by the swiftest way, and I will take the Paths of the Dead.”  
  
The few others corralling their horses pause, and Gimli inhales sharply.

Tightly, but sincerely, Theoden returns, “You will do as you will, my lord Aragorn. It is your doom, maybe, but delay no longer.” 

Aragorn bows lower. Gruff, and short, Theoden bows his head too: “Farewell!”

“Farewell, lord!” he says, and, as if he knew all along, his eyes meet Legolas’. He smiles at Gimli, though haggard, and places a hand on Merry’s head, low on his pony, his eyes shifting smoothly to the young hobbit.

“Merry, I leave you in good hands. Legolas and Gimli will still hunt with me, I hope, but we shall not forget you.”

Merry seems lost for words. His eyes flicker amongst his friends at the steps of the dining hall, and Aragorn to his side.“Good-bye!” he manages, full-throated, before he and Theoden gallop off, Eomer having quickly retrieved his own horse, and following quickly behind. He waves to them as he leaves with a flattering sadness, as though he would’ve rather had one more dinner.

When they have long left them in the dust, falling into the distant dark, Aragorn turns to Halbarad. “There go three that I love, and the smallest not the least.”

He looks up only when the figures have completely disappeared into the night. “Come, Legolas and Gimli. I must eat a little, and I must speak with you as I do.”  
  
They nod emptily, returning into the hall, flooded with yellow light, and silence. They navigate back to their empty table, and wonder how much had changed in a moment. Aragorn, grown decades in days, stares grimly off into a corner of the Burg.

He cannot take all the solemnity.

“Come!” Legolas bursts. “Speak and be comforted, and shake off the shadow!” Had they just slept peacefully in the woods a week or so past? “What has happened since we came to this grim place?”

Aragorn laughs, though void of mirth, and explains that he has looked into the Stone of Orthanc, and knows his path. 

The Path of the Dead.

“I must go myself,” he says, his voice steady but removed. 

Gimli and Legolas kindly crossexamine him; Aragorn answers at each turn, thoroughly, honestly. At last, as if missing the gravity, Gimli boasts that he must be the only one to know such dark caves.

“If you would understand them better, I bid you come with me. I do not go gladly, but only that need drives me. Only of your free will would I have you come.”

“I will go with you even on the Paths of the Dead,” says Gimli. His voice does not shake even for the wind. Legolas spends a moment just in admiration of him, and in wonder that he ever so misunderstood him.

Aragorn is looking at him.

“I also will come.” He hides his heart. He hides his fear. “For I do not fear the dead.” 

It’s true. He does not fear the dead. He fears what death makes of mortals.

Aragorn considers this, nods, and they say no more. They finish dinner. And just as quickly as Merry left, they bolt out like thunder from the Burg, Dunedan at their sides, toward an all-consuming fire.


	9. dunharrow gems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tense dinner convos...... shreds of yearning...... 
> 
> so my "R" key is broken? so annoying!! why i oughtta !! 
> 
> ok have fun love u

Dunharrow is the archetypal “dead-end.” When they arrive, it is near midnight, but they can see by a flickering torchlight the welcoming wave of fair-haired Eowyn, and she begs to know where they became lost; or, smilingly, why he should visit.

Aragorn assures her sagely. “Indeed no man would count such a journey to the fair Eowyn wasted, and, yet, Lady, I would not have come hither if it were not that road which I must take leads me to Dunharrow.”

Legolas and Gimli shift, knowing the tide of the conversation, and shiver in wait. Dunharrow is a gloomy, large cavern, but even it is not to the dwarf’s liking. Wind whips brutally through them; Gimli wonders begrudgingly why Aragorn must waste so much time with heart-breaking, and Legolas appears more-or-less numb to it all. The men and their horses behind are silent - save for the soft shuffling, and light breath huffing from their snouts.

She looks at the men behind him, as if for answers, but says, strained though still smiling, “Then, Lord, you are astray, for out of Harrowdale no road runs East or South, and you had best return as you came.”

His head is hanging low, but he squints up at her, his face twisted with some inkling of awareness. “Nay, Lady, I am not astray; for I walked this land ere you were born to grace it. There is a road out of this valley, and that road I shall take.”

Her face transforms to a stoic anger as he speaks, and then: 

“Tomorrow I shall ride by the Paths of the Dead.”

She is a ghost, then, too. Legolas looks away, and canters off, Gimli behind, as the deadly hushed voice of Eowyn seethes behind: “Do you seek death?”  
  
Aragorn watches from behind as they go, and turns his head to bid the men go on, discomfort rolling amongst them.

Local women greet the horde, fitting their horses into rickety stables, and leading the men to extra beds, cots, and tents scattered amongst the refugee dwelling. Legolas and Gimli, first to arrive, and betrayed by their regalia, are given their own lodging. It is meagre, but more than many of the community themselves. A girl, barely more than a child, gives them fresh robes with shaking hands. Legolas smiles warmly and bows his thanks, and Gimli rushes her out with gruff concern, “Thank you, child, thank you! Get going then, off to bed!”

Once they are alone, Gimli grunts loudly, in a dark mood. 

“Such a wee somber thing!” he remarks, tossing his axe with a heavy thud. Its impact sends a cloud of dust through the small space. “Little lads in armor, and little ladies up at the warfront. A damn shame,” he cries, tossing himself onto his cot. But only moments later, he is up again. “And - and, I say, I shall walk to Death with Lord Aragorn,” he splutters, “but I could suffer less without these affairs of emotion!”

Legolas is lying on his cot, fully garbed, his long hair swirled in the dusty ground a few inches away. He stares up into the thick, coarse material of the tent and is in a sea of beige. He looks like a misplaced plant amongst the stony sand floor.

Softly: “‘Tis none of our concern.”

Gimli stares up to follow the elf’s sight, and feels for him. He should see more green and blue; just as he should be seeing gold glimmer in darkness. This in-between land is purgatory for all races alike. A wave of defeat rushes through him, and, eventually, he sits himself down, seeming to have made up his mind himself.

“Aye, aye! That is right.” 

He picks up the robe beside him and focuses on something better: a late dinner, and well deserved. Nodding still, he adds, “What do I know of love anyway! Soft music cannot be played on this blunt instrument.”

A tinkling laugh fills the space, though it hangs high in the air, absent. He looks calmly at Gimli, who is dressed and ready, and adds, “Lord Aragorn has made us all love him, else we would not go. You know love as any, Master Gimli. There is no different motivation between myself, you, or the maiden Eowyn.”

Outside the tent, shadows rush by, encouraged by the torches lit outside. Dinner must be prepared.

Legolas is already moving to go, and Gimli follows. The shifting glows of navy night and orange flame dance across Gimli’s visage as he chews on his thoughts. At last, he retorts, “But there must be as many types of love as precious gems, or ways of forming gold.”

Legolas is a bit shocked by this innocent statement, but pleased.

“Are you philosophizing on love, my dear dwarf?” 

Gimli scoffs, “Philosophy! Nay. It is common knowledge amongst my kind, anyway.”

“Then your kind is very wise,” Legolas says fondly, as they walk past a smaller tent.

Aragorn catches them abruptly, and gestures for them to go in. Evidently, they will dine together. He looks exhausted, as usual, but he at least pretends to be light-hearted.

“What wisdom,” he asks, leading them in, “has Gimli, son of Gloin, for us now?”

Gimli nearly blushes, and allows himself to be seated across Eowyn by her maids. It is a bizarre little midnight feast. They all bow quickly to one another. The table is laid out with a small plate of roasted chicken, and there is a large bowl full of bread, and a plate of sliced cheese. The serving-maids pour dark ruby wine into their cups, and Eowyn’s bright eyes stay on Aragorn the entire time he settles in.

It's an unexpected party. Perhaps the first formal setting since they left Lorien, though muddled by their intimacy, the time, the sad setting just outside the flimsy tent. He is not sure how much he is allowed in front of Eowyn, or even Aragorn.

But Legolas has reached some levity of his own, anyway - perhaps alone in the party - and responds belatedly, easily, “Gimli was telling me about love.”

Aragorn looks bemused, but it is Eowyn who begs to know more.

“Love!” she remarks excitedly. “And what do dwarves know about love?”

“My lady.” Gimli bows his head. “I know little of what I speak, and can share only what I’ve learned. But dwarves far wiser than I have sung of love for eons and longer.”

“Then tell us all you may,” she says, her energy spilling onto the table. 

He blinks, and puts his chicken thigh down. When all is silent, he leans forward, and chants it like a song. “Like gems, love is plenty; Yet not all gems shine the same.”

Legolas feels Aragorn’s eyes reign unto him, and he lowers his gaze.

“A fine saying,” she commends warmly, her eyes beseeching the others for agreement. “Although, I must say, that even if a horde of rubies filled my purse, I would not begrudge a diamond or opal for joining.” She smiles suavely as she speaks, and Legolas can see what strength of character years of yearning has made in her. She is a fine, but sculpted, thing.

When no-one responds, she adds, “But are they not all rare, and beautiful?”

“Aye, Lady,” Gimli concedes, vexed to be the only one partaking, speaking through a mouthful of food hardly shared by the others. He juts an elbow toward Legolas, as if to nudge him, and beseeches, “Legolas knows well.”

All eyes shift to him. He offers a toothless smile, and bows his head slightly. “Fair maiden, I see your robe is embroidered in a pattern.” In the center of her chest is a sun, like that of the Rohan flag.

“Each thread is as beautiful as the other, but their placement amongst the others determine the design.” He takes a sip of wine, allowing himself to move slowly. “Even if thread abounds, what matters most is its arrangement.”

Aragorn is looking directly at him while Eowyn balances careful stares between the two.

“Is that right, Master Dwarf?” she asks, only a little playfulness remaining.

“Aye,” he agrees shortly, reaching high for more sharp cheese and supple bread.

But Eowyn remains in control of the tide, and digs. “So even if a pickaxe were to strike upon gold, there are moments in which we should leave it?”

Wine splutters into Gimli’s beard as he shakes with visceral disagreement. “There’s no reason to leave it, nay! Why would ye think that? I would never let a gem be left in the dark.”  
  
Aragorn, in this moment, looks rather more like Strider, his dark hair waved and heavy hanging o’er his face, and his calloused hand swishing the wine in his chalice. “And then, once you’ve gathered it, do you hoard it?” He is wry, almost laughing. “When the smiths ask where it’s gone, do you hide it and keep it like it’s yours?”

“You are on some other trail, I see, but I’ll answer all the same." Gimli seems still a bit dismayed, but due pride of his work and his people keeps him on. "I wouldn’t hoard or hide a gem I did not need. When my mother, _gabil ai-mênu_ ” (here he spoke the Khuzdul words of blessing) “said not all gems were the same, she meant it something like Legolas here just said. For a fine smith won’t spin gold with onyx, or tourmaline, though they all have their share of beauty.”

“This is fascinating,” says Aragorn, unexpectedly invested, a sudden and spry energy in him that had been lost since Rivendell. “I must ask, out of curiosity, would the smiths of Ered Luin meld emerald and onyx?”

Gimli seems irritated to be so involved, but he answers still: “Aye, aye, that is a rare but beautiful blend. Onyx and diamond is more likely, even, then.”  
  
“Ah, diamond! That sparkling Evenstar,” says Legolas dreamily, though his voice is full of uncharacteristic ire. “Perhaps your future crown should be thus embedded, _Edhelharn._ "

There is an uneasy shift - that sensation of finding mold under the bed one slept on.

Aragorn tenses, but stays silent one uncomfortable moment longer. He takes a sip while Eowyn looks lost in the corner, ready to burst. 

When he is ready, he looks up with a cool smile. “If you so recommend, perhaps.”

The energy feels combustible, but everyone is barely certain of why, and Eowyn, whose tide had turned ultimately tumultuous, begs for redirection. She seems lost and, without fully understanding why, hurt.

“Who cares of melds and gems at this hour, anyway?” she cries. “I wonder rather why you go to face this deadly task.” 

“Because I must,” answers Aragorn quickly, and clipped. He is steel now, and says, voice low and nearly menacing, “I do not choose paths of peril, Eowyn. Were I to go where my heart dwells, far in the North I would now be wandering in Rivendell.”

The silence grows into a chasm, the vacuum of space turning molten. Eowyn’s eyebrows are deeply furrowed, but her eyes stare open and childlike toward Aragorn. Gimli, faced with a table full of rinds and bones, is ready as ever to go. Legolas watches Aragorn’s clenched hand on the table like it is a separate thing, like he doesn’t understand it, though deeply he comprehends.

Eowyn’s sweet voice weaves through this dark web. “Lord, if you must go, let me ride in your following.”

“Your duty is with your people.”

Even Gimli, now, seems invested, looking up in some confusion at this dark character beside him. How he’d grown too quickly, young Strider; he felt pity deep in his stomach, the likes of which he felt for little Frodo with his weary eyes. He felt the liquid Legolas beside him suddenly stiff, and the angelic Eowyn dark like a storm.

Clearing his throat, he tries to save the moment, “Well, I say, what a fine meal-”

“Shall I always be left behind as you depart?” Perhaps this small attempt at decency was enough to break her. She is looking deeply at Aragorn, and Gimli resigns himself as tears burst forth from her like a finely flowing stream, silent and swift and natural across her cheeks. Her voice is dark, guttural, and full of a long repression.“I am no serving-women. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear pain or death.”

Gimli averts his eyes. Legolas has long turned away.

“What do you fear, lady?” presses Aragorn.

For a moment, with Aragorn like a wall against her, she looks around the room, seeing her own vulnerability. It is only by accident of feeling that Legolas meets her eyes, and she seems powerful, and knowing. Shaking, she looks at Legolas as she speaks.“A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire.”

Legolas stares. When he remembers to look away, he sees Aragorn has been watching him, and - though he could not say what - he feels he has seen far too much.

Alas, whatever he saw in Legolas’ eyes seems to compound the problem; Aragorn is far from feeling. “And yet you counselled me not to adventure on the road I had chosen, because it is perilous?”

“So one may counsel another,” she responds, her ire compounding like smoke in this small, insulated space. “I am like Gimli, in this regard. I would not see a gem so rare be cast away needlessly.”

“Nor would I,” says he, empty of compassion, his fatigue leading his heart. “Therefore I say to you, Stay! For you have no errand in the South.”

Her wooden chair grumbles across the ground as she stands forcefully up, thrusting her hand toward Legolas and Gimli. “Neither have those others who go with you. They only go so they would not be parted from thee.” She marches away, past Aragorn, the wind whipping the folds at the entrance of the tent as she prepares to go. But before she will, she turns on her heel.

“Do you believe I would go needlessly? Then they too, go needlessly.” One of her serving maids is holding open the entrance, wild with worry, as the night air turns them all quickly cold. “Aye, Lord, they go because they love thee.”

Aragorn looks up, but she’s already left, her golden hair spun and faded into the enormous onyx night.


	10. silver rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> still path to path of the dead.

Sleep overcomes Gimli swiftly, soft breathing intermittently filled with long, sweeping snores. Like a low brassy instrument underneath a wooden flute.

They had left dinner silently, Legolas leading first, as Gimli followed behind. They did not wait to see Aragorn out, though Gimli seemed a little vexed to do so.

Instead, Legolas is a bit vexed, now, and Gimli sleeps peacefully past it all. So Legolas listens. Everything is dim and colorless, the midnight light giving only as much as vague borders and highlights, a silence permeating the room. In darkness the mind can wonder kaleidoscopically, vividly. He sees the dark emerald of Mirkwood like a far and distant dream. How the vines and leaves used to hang over the eaves of his home, the way the dark thicket hummed and compounded and grew when a wind blew through.

When he thinks of home, he thinks of wild, breathless joy and running. Pursuit and rest, feet pounding into dense earth.

When he thinks of Fangorn, he thinks of dancing. Like the wind twirling leaves upward.

And when he thinks of Aragorn, he thinks of drowning. 

He is only a little afraid of what this means.

And he would try to think less of him, except there is a sound in the hush. Legolas knows the gait and timbre of his walk too well.

Quickly: “Come, Legolas.”

Legolas knows he cannot pretend; Aragorn knew he would not be sleeping. As others watch the moon & sun and wonder at their patterns in the sky, those great bodies themselves know so keenly what happens amongst each other - each rotation reeling the other round.

Aragorn says nothing. He seems resigned. Even outside, it is too dark, the great cavern Dunharrow blocking half the sky, and dust falling on the wind.

They walk together, stoic - a King and his advisor. When they come upon a torch, a man on vigil beside, they bow their heads, and play their roles.

Legolas sees Aragorn’s face under the light, when he can, in those brief flickers. 

“I must ask, my Lord, why we walk aimless through this darkness?” His voice is light, but ungiving. He looks up and wide with forced interest. “It is a troubling walk without the sky.”

“Aye, Legolas,” returns he, grimly, “but less troubling with company.”

He pauses, before nodding along, considering. “Mm. Perhaps another could trouble you less than I.”

“I imagine not, Legolas,” he retorts gruffly, directly. Aragorn can barely see him as they approach, but enough to grab his shoulders. “And yet, dear elf, we are not aimless.” He turns him a little, their eyesight landing on a larger encampment, clearly erected for the best of the company. Two torches flicker beside the humble grey lodging. “At last we arrive.”

And surely, Aragorn leads them in. There is a bed - no cot - and a small table covered in maps and scattered parchment. One dim candle flickers on it. Beside it, there is a chair.

It is a small but significant offering for a King.

“Will you join me?” Aragorn sounds determined, yet not overeager. “If you please.”

“There is but one chair,” says Legolas absently - almost, laughingly.

“I shall stand,” replies Aragorn.

“And one bed, my Lord.”

Another pause. Aragorn relaxes a little, almost - _nearly_ \- smiling. “Then - I will sleep on the floor, if I must. As we have managed for many nights before this one.”

But Legolas does not laugh. In fact, since dinner, or, perhaps - even longer before - he has felt so unlike himself. Dissociated, performative, in ways that feel so unnatural and wooden. And now, with Aragorn, this affliction, this rigidity, returns as if instinct.

So instead of laughing, and leading him to bed to lay and imagine stars behind the thick canvas ceiling, he says,

“Does Eowyn sleep?” and takes his lone seat.

It is akin to chess, but with less finesse. Aragorn, too tired to be frustrated, and too eager to be aware, collapses onto the bed, resting on the thick headboard, and staring up. After a moment, he turns, leaning on his arm. 

He sighs, but is diplomatic: “I do not know.”

Legolas stares at the dust swirling on the ground. It is cold.

After some time unanswered, Aragorn clarifies: “I do not seek Eowyn.”

Silence. Legolas thinks he may hear rushing waters somewhere in this vast desert. Not unlike those Amroth drowned in. Frodo had heard it too, at Cerin Amroth, that great hill in Lothlorien. The Sea cried up from the South to those who knew longing. For those who knew love, Nimrodel’s angelic voice breathed silver into the river. 

Aragorn knows Nimrodel’s voice. His Evenstar, too.

He feels stupid, stuck, waiting at the foot of the mountain to hear it.

“What do you think of, Legolas?” he asks in their shared tongue. It is unfair; but it is right, too.

“I think of the white and silver rings of Cerin Amroth.” He speaks in the Common Tongue - looks directly at him as he says it - in case he had forgotten his ferocity, his deadliness. But it is a soft and sharp, clean kind of killing. The way blood lets almost sweetly when the sword is swift enough.

Aragorn tenses at this, eyebrows furrowing. It is on that hill that he and Arwen professed their love.

His mouth goes ajar as if to speak, but is not allowed to.

“I know what memories that place holds for you, _Edhelharn_. And should you not think of them?” He smiles weakly, eyes unchanged. “I hear a different song. Our Ringbearer heard it too, long before, when this darkness was but a cloud on the horizon.” He looks around, at the navy grey and black, the dust and heavy rock, which remained still even in this den.

He returns his gaze to Aragorn. He has not lost his grace, but his eyes have shifted with that painful, begrudged pain of knowing; the way one holds a breath while stinging poultice fills a wound.

“I sang him the Song of Amroth and Nimrodel.”

All those pauses had built the silence to empty, dead air, that begged to be filled. 

Legolas actually laughs, abruptly. It isn’t bitter, but self-effacing. “Young Pippin told me he much preferred tales of Beren and Lúthien. He is not wrong to prefer their song.”

Aragorn does not speak at all. Too much is still flowing from him.

“But Frodo heard. Just as I do.”

A soft wind threatens the bare light on the table. This shelter is weak. Legolas cups his hand to guard it.

Aragorn already knows the song, but still he asks, “And what did Frodo hear?”

Slowly - perhaps it is taking too long, or abruptly, too soon - but Legolas sings. This time, in the original tongue:  
  


 _An Elven-maid there was of old,  
_ _A shining star by day:  
_ _Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
_ _Her shoes of silver-grey._

 _A star was bound upon her brows,  
_ _A light was on her hair  
_ _As sun upon the golden boughs  
_ _In Lórien the fair._

 _Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
_ _And fair she was and free;  
_ _And in the wind she went as light  
_ _As leaf of linden-tree._

 _Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
_ _By water clear and cool,  
_ _Her voice as falling silver fell  
_ _Into the shining pool._

 _Where now she wanders none can tell,  
_ _In sunlight or in shade;  
_ _For lost of yore was Nimrodel  
_ _And in the mountains strayed._

 _The elven-ship in haven grey  
_ _Beneath the mountain-lee  
_ _Awaited her for many days  
_ _Beside the roaring sea._

 _A wind by night in Northern lands  
_ _Arose, and loud it cried,  
_ _And drove the ship from elven-strands  
_ _Across the streaming tide._

 _When dawn came dim the land was lost,  
_ _The mountains sinking grey  
_ _Beyond the heaving waves that tossed  
_ _Their plumes of blinding spray._

 _Amroth beheld the fading shore  
_ _Now low beyond the swell,  
_ _And cursed the faithless ship that bore  
_ _Him far from Nimrodel._

 _Of old he was an Elven-king,  
_ _A lord of tree and glen,  
_ _When golden were the boughs in spring  
_ _In fair Lothlórien._

 _From helm to sea they saw him leap,  
_ _As arrow from the string,  
_ _And dive into the water deep,  
_ _As mew upon the wing._

 _The wind was in his flowing hair,  
_ _The foam about him shone;  
_ _Afar they saw him strong and fair  
_ _Go riding like a swan._

 _But from the West has come no word,  
_ _And on the Hither Shore  
_ _No tidings Elven-folk have heard  
_ _Of Amroth evermore._

The elves of Mirkwood are renowned for their voices, and Legolas is natural and beautiful as he sings. When he is finished, he lets the last note fade with less skill. It breaks at the end.

He keeps his eyes down, maintaining the light at the table.

“Sung by you, such a somber song is healing.” Aragorn repositions himself, sits erect at the edge of the bed. “But why do you think of this?”

“You are burdened, my Lord. By a heavy prophecy. Galadriel gave me one, also, though its fulfillment hurts only myself and no other.” The rushing waters fill his ears as if he is underwater. “Whither I go South, the gulls will call me - and I will be overcome with sea-longing.”

Even now, watching him in the dark, Aragorn cannot imagine Legolas out of the woods.

“So you will leave?” says Aragorn.

“I must.”

“Mm.” Aragorn stands up, paces. “And what of Fangorn?”

“I know not myself. A sojourn, maybe, if Frodo succeeds his task.”

Aragorn, at last, seems to have nothing to say. He paces awhile, then stops abruptly, his hand thudding onto his thigh. He turns, angrily, toward the elf. “You think me Amroth?”

Legolas laughs. “I do not.”  
  
“Then why do you sing such somber songs?”

“ _I_ am Amroth, Lord.”

Aragorn grows exasperated. Bitingly, he corrects: “I am not your Lord, Legolas.”

“You are.”

Aragorn stares him down, seeking his eyes for answers he does not get. “ _You_ are Amroth?”

Legolas is fierce, but affected; he takes a moment to answer, and averts glistening eyes as he does: “Amroth held off his journey from the sea... waiting for a love who could not meet him.”

Aragorn looks at him, dumbfounded, and silenced. His hand meets his forehead in deep thought before, still irritable, he responds less coolly than he hoped, too harsh and too desperate.

“You must know, Legolas. It is not because I do not want to come. It’s -”

“Your destiny,” Legolas says, smiling weakly, and bitter. “I know.”

Aragorn collapses back down onto the bed, his face twisted. 

“Of course you must go. I have been too focused on my own fate to know your own. Forgive me, Legolas.” 

Legolas pulls his arms back from the table, lets the wind beat the flame. 

“I’ve yet to hear the gulls, or know of sea-longing. But,” Legolas speaks softly, intensely, “as I am now…”

He looks to him as the light dies out.

“I would stay.”

Aragorn stills. Looks up and meets his searching eyes.

And that simply, he walks over. Holds his face in his hands. Looks down into his eyes.

Legolas lifts his chin into the pull, letting his body stretch up and out.

“ _So do_.”

They have resolved nothing. Aragorn still has not explained himself, his situation, his wants. Legolas has not stopped hurting. If anything, the night is darker, and dawn feels ever distant. But though Aragorn is a man bound by duty, he was ever a Ranger first - wild, nightworn, and built of untamed twilight.

And for that, Legolas lets himself be drawn up, the chair wobbling off and creaking back into place, empty. Aragorn turns his head, dives in, takes in his lips boldly, brusquely - keeps coming back up and back in, as if exploring a field ranged with traps, and learning its topography.

Legolas returns firmly, smartly, like his arrows that land and _stick_ ; there is no fumbling, no wasted time. Every lunge lands where it needs to, and he presses in hard - presses his lips to his, pushes his chest to his own, one hand arresting Aragorn’s head ever in, the other tugging his pants down.

They move quick, passionate, but centred, anchored to one another as they twist and push down, gravity pulling together and down, spinning, as Aragorn twists Legolas onto his back and lays him on the bed, the sad grey blanket pushed fully off by Legolas’ open hand, the other pulling Aragorn closer, and that sensation on his hip, arching up, away, but together, ever - 

“Legolas,” says Aragorn, in a tone that is breathless but somber, like trying to tug someone back to discuss curtains when they are already running off a cliff. “Legolas.” He pulls back; like jumping, only suspending above gravity for a moment, “Do-” and he falls back down into a kiss, entangled, as Legolas works Aragorn’s shirt off, chainmail slinking heavy and cold off his chest, and, a breath, but Legolas interrupts - no words - as he looks him in the eye and undresses himself.

“Are you helping?” he at last asks, his confidence unabating, wry and quick agility rushing back into him as if in battle.

Aragorn knows his body, knows his tenor, his spirit, but takes a moment to recover, nodding dumbly as he helps him out of his attire, and then, two bodies, sweat and dust, and the slipperiness of flesh unless it is dug into enough, as they fall into one another as their orbits demand.

And it is only because he is valiant, because he is trying to do right - because Legolas has always been worth more than a moment - that Aragorn finds the strength one last time before losing himself entirely to the music. He pulls away.

His voice is as fierce as their whispers in Moria.

“Are you certain, Legolas? This is what you seek?”

Legolas nearly laughs. This closeness is all he’s been seeking. He feels full like lembas, forgetting his emptiness that pervaded him just before the bite.

But Aragorn’s eyes stay on him, waiting for an answer.

“ _An ngell nîn, Aragorn._ ”

With one hand to his waist, and the other at his neck, he pulls him back in. The dim navy air fills the space between them, noses touching, heavy breath swirling, as Legolas’ eyes meet his. It is only them. Like onyx and emerald melding.

Even his words feel close.

 _“Á tulë sinomë,”_ Legolas whispers, bodies tight, lips to his ear.

And Aragorn does.

Though through the night they sing together in a tune so sweet, he does not forget their fate still written in song: Legolas, in the dying lands, awaiting a love who never joins him - lost forever, yearning, beating woeful against great grey rocks, like froth at the edge of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the sindarin phrases are "please, aragorn" or literally "for my joy" and then just, "come here". 
> 
> the song is tolkien's word for word, and legolas really did sing it to frodo at cerin amroth early on in the fellowship :-) 
> 
> hope ur having a swell july luvs xx


	11. behold & be held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paths & pelennor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are getting somewhere friends

All after is a dream. 

Legolas is unafraid, so it is not a nightmare. Yet he is surrounded by many unpleasant things.

The Paths of Dead are unlike any caverns before. Even Gimli, who is closest to home than any other in their party, shivers and quakes at each pass. The forest is not green but evergreen, and the mist is more like the thick grey smoke that pours out of a great fire.

Aragorn is a barely-lit torch ahead of them. The horses huff and pull back, high pitched whinnies echoing through the chambers of the deep woods. 

He storms on and does not look back. If he hesitates once, all following behind will surely trip and fall.

All Legolas can contribute is his calm. He dismounts and gently sings to the most dismal animals. Their large snouts halt in his hand, and they bow their heads low.

It’s a small palliative. They cannot last this way forever.

And yet they march on, at once through forest, then cave, and many hours in pure darkness.

When the dead air rushes suddenly, a voice booms and tames them. It is not the voice of Aragorn, but the Heir of the Isildur. Commanding the dead.

Legolas feels sympathy for himself. Even the shades of men will follow him. 

-

At the Stones of Erech at last they rest. Aragorn broods at the edge of their encampment. Legolas attempts, once, to make him sleep. The more comfort he offers, the more Aragorn seems disturbed at the thought. He does not lay to rest nearly till dawn, when Gimli comes and scolds him with the barren and humorless voice of a displeased mother. 

Maybe a half hour later they arise to a dark and cold dawn, the shade of Mordor fully upon them. 

They pass many days in this manner, beating on in grey and dying lands. The once-green fields of Lebennin have been hollowed and dried. 

Each rare and brief encampment, Aragorn hovers somewhere above them all, disturbed and unlike himself. Gimli gives up scolding him.

When he speaks anything but a command, he mutters low about time. 

“Haste. We must make haste.”

Halbarad haunts behind him all the while, and Legolas is grateful.

On the fifth day, they meet the edge of the enemy and build vigor. It's that grim energy of grit and last resorts, like they have died once already and this is the last step before falling.

Watching the tail of the enemy retreat renews Aragorn a little. At camp, he lies down quickly and painlessly. When Legolas and Gimli see him rest and retreat, he even calls after Legolas to stay behind.

It seems awkward now to be apart, so they hold each other. Legolas has a distinct feeling that they are the only two who can see the army of dead, lurking just beyond the edge of camp.

Aragorn at times sits up and stares dead East. And in other moments, he will suddenly arrest Legolas close.

All Legolas feels is his back go suddenly cold, or warm.

They don’t say anything more.

-

The next morning the dream feels thickly surreal. Even Legolas now, against his best hopes, is perturbed. While the spirits of the men have been long deadened by endless days of travel, Legolas can suddenly hear it. Over the incessant pounding of hooves and battling wind, his ears sting.

The gulls.

It is an odd thing for one to fear, especially now. Yet it stays on his mind, even as they reach Pelargir - where the enemy had been beaten back to the river - and Aragorn calls the ghosts to arms to sweep the port clear. 

The party watches the unsettling sight in terror and awe, as the ships unboard themselves, fleets of men driven to madness and sinking into the water like ants drowned in honey.

When the swarm of mist and darkness has finished feeding, and hangs eerily above the city, Aragorn bellows loud and unafraid, “Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys ever again! Depart and be at rest!” 

And suddenly, the darkness fades into warming light. The dream: ended.

The men at last rest. 

In the morning, Aragorn mutters on about time again. Legolas wishes he could give him something to fight, now, so he would feel useful enough to rest again. Even Gimli paces, and looks forlorn.

Some great pain swirls in the eyes of the dwarf as he looks out on the water. 

Legolas wonders if he should say he can see Minas Tirith out there on the horizon like a red ember on fire. He wonders if anybody should know that even he is unsettled. While the men watched ghosts upend a city in fear, Legolas’s soul was wrenched by the wailing of the gulls. 

His heart had been like lava being rushed by cool water, and petrified.

But Legolas has seen dark days before. And he knows even though something may - or will - die, it is honorable to hope still for it.

“Up with your beard, Durin’s son! For thus it is spoken: Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn.”

The dwarf’s eyes swirl still, but seem to swell with something akin to gratitude, and Legolas is glad to be with him, at the precipice of something great and terrible.

Aragorn turns his eyes to them, but does not speak. After a long while - the river beating in front of them vast and seemingly slow - he says, darkly, “It may all be for naught.” He directs his eyes back up at the horizon. "Minas Tirith is burning.”

And at last, it is visible to those men of Numenor descent. Gimli still squints desperately beyond to know for himself if it is true.

It feels like an accusation. Aragorn knows well that Legolas can see beyond anyone in their party.

“Follow what may, great deeds are not lessened in worth,” says he in turn. “Great deed was the riding of the Paths of the Dead, and great it shall remain, though none be left in Gondor to sing of it in the days to come.”

“That may well befall,” warns Aragorn, low.

“Then we must do without hope.” The three know these are Aragorn’s own words, said to them after Gandalf fell into darkness.

“For my part,” says Gimli, diplomatic and sincere, “I am glad to go into battle, for the honor of the folk of the Lonely Mountain.”

“And I for the folk of the Great Wood,” Legolas agrees. There is but a brief beat, and Legolas smiles almost challengingly: “And for the love of the Lord of the White Tree.”

And there they fall silent, and brew each in their own separate and stirring thoughts.

-

Tumultuous seems excessive, Legolas thinks.

It is not tumultuous, although in his life he has never had emotion riled so recklessly. This is why war is so unbefitting of elves. Like asking a bird to walk the trails of the forest. They are not unused to the travel, or work, but the many roots and dips on ground are heavy and unnecessary nuisances.

Unlike the men around him, he is not afraid. And unlike many of his people, he is not annoyed either. 

But he is vexed. 

There is this deep urge to fly high above, and away, and let mortals fight amongst themselves as they do.

Of course, this is selfish; of course, he would never.

He’s vexed.

Pelennor had almost been lost, but - _of course_ \- Aragorn swept the fields on time, and with ease. It was written in prophecy, so there was no reason to doubt it. 

Their ship had sailed into the depths of a losing battle with the wind of the Sea beating them forward and on, the great white standard of Gondor lit up by the Sun and Arwen’s own stitching of mithril and gold. 

Legolas, despite himself, is beginning to hate prophecy.

But now dusk had settled into midnight. Legolas looks out at the trompled fields and is unworried for their fate. Of all things, the grass will grow back fine.

Their encampment is uproarious in sections, and deadly silent in others. There are pockets of men desperate to feast and celebrate, others sleeping their first full night. Some, more silently, are dying, and wishing they had much earlier.

Legolas is the camp nurse. Where the ones critical enough to save have long since been taken up the many white, winding streets of Minas Tirith to the Houses of Healing, he puts balms on cuts, and sings lullabies to those already facing that last sleep.

Gimli follows him, helping none, but trying with more effort than anyone. He curses at the men who cheer too loudly and tells Legolas, often, how the dwarves honor their dead much more solemnly, and proper. 

Legolas nods gently, his eyes on the next faceless patient, crushed into a cot. He receives poultice from one of the many young women who have come down from the city, and applies it to cloth. “I imagine men must be quicker in their sorrow, Gimli,” - the cloth makes contact, and the man hisses at its touch - “for having less time.”

“Aye.” Gimli says this appeasingly. He flinches in empathy with the man, and kneels to pray at the side of the cot.

They go like this, doctor and preacher, far into the night. As rest settles into the bone weary soldiers, the young men and women of Minas Tirith ripple more fervently through camp, whispering amongst themselves of the returned King, the Elfstone. There are rumors the King returned to the Houses of Healing, and breathed life back into the Prince Faramir, fair Eowyn, and the strange and noble halfling traveler Meriadoc.

Many young women galloped through flushed with wonder, saying the King himself asked for kingsfoil from the forest, and even now wandered the streets of Minas Tirith healing the injured.

It had to be the King, because on his chest is a bright gleaming emerald.

As evening grows into dead night, Legolas and Gimli at last seek rest. Gimli, at range of his tent at the edge of the white walls of the city, says proudly, “The Elfstone! The one and the same as our friend Aragorn.”  
  
“Sleep well, Gimli.”

“I will sleep sound as a block, with my axe at my arm.”

“Do, though you will have no need for it.”

After parting ways, Legolas wanders a bit at the edge of the city. The once-barred Gate is open, the lanes of the great fortress suddenly accepting a breeze.

The torches turn the walls orange and beige. Legolas’ shadow looms high upon the wall as he walks its edge. He has gotten used to the men and women staring at him. They are unused to his svelte, tree-like limbs and stream of blonde hair. Nobody questions why he walks aimlessly there.

When Aragorn at last pads out the Gate, exhaustion rife across his features, Legolas stops in place and calls.

“Are they well?”

Aragorn’s head turns sharply. When they land on the caller, his features soften. He bows his head. “They are well.”

They are assessing each other. Legolas doesn’t look as tired as he ought, but he is oddly anxious. Aragorn looks ruined, but surprisingly at ease.

“Minas Tirith can at last sleep well, now their King has returned.” Legolas says it like an offering _._

“Minas Tirith can sleep for having saved their own city,” Aragorn returns, “and I am glad to serve them.”

Legolas does not care why they are sleeping. Aragorn looks healthy. The green on his chest still glows and shifts slowly against the dim firelight. 

Legolas bows his head, and begins to retreat, but Aragorn only follows. They seem uncertain of each other, but not unconfident. Performing roles well, but easing into sincerity.

“Merry is still spirited and foolish, though more wizened.”

They walk to nowhere, following the outer wall toward darkness.

“After saving his life, he asked me to grab weed for his pipe.”

A great guffaw ripples through Legolas, delight bubbling up from some spring he did not know flowed there in his heart. Aragorn turns to watch him openly.

“And Faramir is well, now, though _athelas_ was scarce.”

The discomfort shakes off them. Darkness envelopes them kindly.

“Eowyn, too, will not be stopped, as could be expected. She will only suffer as much pain as her heart allows.”

“There was grief at your parting,” Legolas adds evenly. “I was grieved to behold it.”

“Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man’s heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned.” His face shows his sincerity, though it is wiser than it is ashamed. “But in me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan.”

“I have pity for her heart, and what it weathers.” They reach light’s limit, and stop in near darkness to assess the stars. Legolas is almost surprised to find them.

Like it is one of those nights early in their travels, Legolas sits on the grass, and continues:

“All those who come to know the Lord of the White Tree come to love him after their own fashion. Even the cold maiden of the Rohirrim.”

Aragorn moves slowly, coming up behind him. When he wraps his arms around him, legs surrounding his hips, Legolas closes his eyes, and inhales tightly. When he opens his eyes again, he can see a few more stars in the sky. 

Legend says the starry night was the first sight the elves beheld, and their namesake. The Eldar. People of the stars.

“There was grief, but she will recover.” His arms wrap wholly around his chest, and his chin rests at the slope of Legolas’ neck.

“I admire her.”

“You do well by her then. She is lady worthy of admiration.”

They pause awhile. At times nearly asleep.

“I hope to be like her at our parting.”

His arms tense around his torso. When Aragorn speaks, his lips mumble against Legolas’ neck. “Will you be grieved?”

“Will I be grieved?” Legolas retorts almost laughingly. “ _Ai! Pe-channas_.” He pulls away, though the grip does not loosen. 

That large, forester’s hand comes underneath his chin and turns him gently back, and makes him meet his eyes.

Legolas stares back, tosses a curt response back like a challenge: “ _Nîr tôl erin baded lîn._ ”

The hand releases from his chin, and up to hold his cheek. He rubs the skin gruff, though Legolas knows his hands are soft and skilled when they wish to be. “Then let us not part,” says Aragorn. He pulls up both hands to hold his head to his, “Not until parting is what you wish.”

Dawn will too-soon break upon the horizon. Legolas leans into his arms and turns so they are direct: knees to knees, legs wrapped around each other, limbs moving like they were rehearsed for unison.

“I am not afraid to die with you.”

“You are not afraid of anything, Legolas.”

“A mortal life is not an option, even if I wished for it.”

“I know.”

Aragorn catches his hands between their legs, and stills them. “And I could not choose immortality if I wished it.”

Aragorn’s grey eyes looks almost black. Legolas looks deep for some glimmer of light, and imagines he finds stars in them.

“ _Alae_.” The first word his people ever said, looking into the night sky. Behold!

It lacks wonder.It sounds like, _And so it is._

Aragorn laughs, good-natured. Bitterless. 

“ _Alae_.”

They are some fated side-trail along the path of a rigid and urgent destiny: only walked when given extra time, with no path of its own to the necessary ends.

Scenic. Fulfilling. Dead-end.

And yet exhausted and pointless, their bodies fold into each other as if by accident, or some external force of gravity. Like smooth yet holding latches, binding - melding - all the while praising, muttering, _“Gi melin, gi melin, gi melin,_ ” like a mantra till morning - resigned to be forgotten tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ai! Pe-channas. - ugh! idiot  
> Nîr tôl erin baded lîn - a weeping comes on your going. it's kinda teasing bc it's a common way to say goodbye
> 
> **immortal/mortal talk: from what ive researched arwen being part mortal is what allows her to choose to be w/ aragorn while it’s not a choice for someone like legolas. not sure if my math is right here but that’s why i felt compelled to portray them, in a canon scenario, as p much doomed :-) catch me in an AU for smthng nicer


	12. crowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wars end but do crushes???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just another friendly reminder that i use a lot of dialogue verbatim from the book so i am NOT this clever or smart im just trying to use canon pieces that fit !!! giving this specific reminder bc the first section w mer and pip is essentially just the book rewritten, but it was too cute to skip and fits the story here. LOVE U TOLKIEN MWAH

The morning is respite. Aragorn sends him away with a message for the Prince Imrahil. He will not enter the city.

And thus Gimli and Legolas are given the great joy of seeing the faces of the healing Merry and ever-joyful Pippin. And there they pour out affection with great pleasure. Gimli, for his part, is fixated quite wholly on the stonework of the city; Legolas, in his turn, insists he shall fix the gardens with his people. Merry and Pippin walk them through the Houses of Healing, sun on their backs, till at last cool grey consumes them, and they settle into some small alcove as Merry lies to rest. 

And if only they could tell more tales, but alas, that screeching cry rings distant and too-near. He turns his head suddenly to trace it. There, beneath the sun which lights the Anduin like fire, fly the ghostly apparitions low and close along the river.

“Gulls!” he cries suddenly, stirred and agitated, and getting up from his seat. “A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart. Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships. Then I stood still, forgetting war in Middle-earth; for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea.”

Then, as if compelled by something greater than himself, he looks out again to find them suddenly gone, flown southward beyond view of the window. “The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! for the gulls.”

The party, at once in delight, look distressed to see Legolas in such a state, who usually sits peaceful as marble, or runs swift as water.

“No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm.”

“Say not so,” says Gimli, raising his hand as if to still, and seat him. Legolas, though still struck, eyes suddenly fierce and battle-ready, slowly obeys and stills. “There are countless things still to see in Middle-earth,” Gimli placates further, “and great works to do. But if all the fair folk take to the Havens, it will be a duller world for those who are doomed to stay.”

“Dull and dreary indeed!” adds Merry, stirred to comfort even from bed. “You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise dwarves like Gimli, who need you. At least I hope so.” His eyes, too, wander toward the window. The Sun, done rising, seems too bright. In its too-brightness, it feels deceiving. “Though I feel somehow that the worst of this war is still to come. How I wish it was all over, and well over!”

“Don’t be so gloomy!” rejoins Pippin. “The Sun is shining,” - though he gets up and begins to eagerly tug a curtain closed - “and here we are together for a day or two at least. I want to hear more about you all. Come, Gimli! You and Legolas have mentioned your strange journey with Strider about a dozen times already this morning. But you haven’t told me anything about it.”

“The Sun may shine here,” says Gimli, “but there are memories of that road that I do not wish to recall out of the darkness. Had I known what was before me, I think that not for any friendship would I have taken the Paths of the Dead.”

“The Paths of the Dead?” echoes Pippin with fascination. “I heard Aragorn say that, and I wondered what he could mean. Won’t you tell us some more?”

“Not willingly!” grunts Gimli. “For upon that road I was put to shame: Gimli Glóin’s son, who had deemed himself more tough than Men, and hardier under earth than any Elf. But neither did I prove; and I was held to the road only by the will of Aragorn.”

“And by the love of him also,” adds Legolas, quite distracted, staring out the window.

There is a pause, then, briefly, that Gimli fills: “Alas! I only had heart for myself,” then, shaking his head, “Nay! I will not speak of that journey.”

Merry and Pippin look back and forth between them, suddenly forlorn and silent. And were it not that Legolas also had great love for them, and pity for their eagerness, he would remain silent for a long while.

At last: “I will tell you enough for your peace,” he resigns.

And except for remembering the gulls once more, Legolas tells the tale well, and swiftly, and just enough to satiate their curiosity. When he becomes too tired, or distracted - by thoughts of Sea, or even Aragorn himself - Gimli takes hold of the tale in his stead.

Pippin, whose eyes by now are full of wonder, asks, “Then where now is Aragorn?”

“With the commanders, to decide our next move,” says Gimli.

“Our last move," echoes Legolas too rightly.

The hobbits exchange worried glances, as Legolas falls silent with agitation, and Gimli with wise defeat, staring forward with the sorrow of one who knows well the consequences that may follow.

-

“You will ride with me in the morning,” is all Aragorn says, up high above the ground as night befalls the Houses of Healing, feeling no need to explain how he finds him there.

“It will be my honor,” responds Legolas, feeling no need to ask for explanation.

Aragorn joins him out on some stone balcony at the edge of the city. They stare out at the river. It has little reflection, almost blending into the night. The moon is almost completely black save some small waxing sliver.

“With Gimli, also.”

Legolas turns to face him. “Of course.”

Aragorn explores his face, seeking something. “Yes, of course.” Then, perhaps in failing to find what he sought, he adds, “Merry is too unwell to come with us. He must stay.”

The elf nods shortly, turning over his shoulder to glance toward the inner chambers where Merry lies. He turns to look at Aragorn, thoughtful. “It is cruel that he may not die with those he loves.”

“But perhaps crueler if he dies before them, while they have chance yet to live.”

“And perhaps most cruel of all: that he may not choose.”

Aragorn hangs his head. When he looks up, Legolas eyes have not moved off him. 

“For all but the injured, they will choose to stay or go. I have no command over them.”

“They will come. They follow you freely.”

Aragorn remains stoic and silent too long, so Legolas adds, in a mix of pride and comfort, “It is an honor to die at your side. To follow the light of Anduril, and the King Elessar into battle.”

The man laughs, though it falls out singed and frail. Where Legolas’ hand has been resting on the stone banister, Aragorn places his own. He still looks out over the horizon, though it is mostly black - even red in the far distance.

“And what should Elessar do, if he succeeds?” It is odd to hear Aragorn speak of himself in this way. But Legolas understands why, as he sees the old Strider before him, at once capable of the task, and desperately yearning to run and disappear into the pine groves.

He considers being selfish. In fact, in his world, offering comfort is decadent. In an immortal life, only so much can be caught up in the details. But it is Aragorn, and he looks bereft, so he weaves words out of the little light the moon gives. “You must rebuild Gondor into new greatness. And be a beacon of hope for the kingdoms of men to come, who would fade and grow into paleness if not for legends before them. So that your heirs, and their heirs, will now carry the blood of Numenor without the curse of Isildur, and bring old lands new life.”

Aragorn looks over to him, and his eyes glimmer with some deep dissonance. Like they are split equally between great joy and great despair, and Legolas instead looks at the Elfstone glimmering at his chest. It is the brightest object in the whole expanse around them.

“And I will sail West. Of course.”

He says it like there is no other option, and he thinks it might be ironic. Cruel, maybe - to give Aragorn no choice. Even the illusion of it.

“Yes,” Aragorn says, as his hand folds and tightens around Legolas’ own: “Of course.”

-

As all great burdens: the war is heavy, and then it is gone. Like casting a great boulder away and watching it crash into smithereens, and feeling at once quite, quite light.

And while time moves slow as weights pull low, it flies with great urgency the more joy builds: Frodo and Sam awakening for the first time since they saw Hell; Gandalf suddenly bright like an angel; Merry and Pippin healed and laughing and growing; and at last Elessar crowned and kinged, the great crown of pearls and silver so eerily itself like a gull. Legolas smiles and laughs deeply to see him this way, even when his words declare, “Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world!” 

If he has not learned anything, he at least knows now how despair and hope often reside in the same destiny like lovers. And it is this awareness that silences them all, as Aragorn rises and Faramir cries,

“Behold the King!”

And Legolas does. Legolas does.


	13. parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not actually the end of the story

Time flows. That slivered moon suddenly full.

The orbit once holding the fellowship in place is suddenly pulled in many directions - many callings for home. Yet Aragorn is firm that they stay.

He will not say why, but there is screeching like Nazgul in Legolas' mind. He will not be selfish; but he must go, he must go. Souls cry out when they are being harmed. He must go, except Aragorn asks that he stay.

Only he and Gimli amongst the others grow more anxious as the nights grow more fair. Gimli asks that Legolas join him as he gathers maps of Fangorn from their stores. He is planning but Legolas cannot help mourning. This longing feeling so unlike himself, yet worse ever since the gulls made his soul wrung and twisted.

In passing, in those few rushed and busy moments that the days now suddenly are - full of light and movement and growth - he passes him, and Aragorn smiles. He smiles so brightly, and Legolas bows his head slow.

It is time to go.

This fact made more known by the blossom of the white tree, and Legolas one night dares himself to go. The tree is fragrant and fair.

He thinks perhaps Aragorn will find him here. He thinks this awhile, alone.

-

The next day she arrives, and the sky melts into sapphire, the scent of celebration wafting clean in the summer air. And for those unknowing of love, then know it now, beholding a star itself walk amongst the halls of Minas Tirith, toward the King who brought hope to a dying land.

The clouds themselves rejoice, reflecting starlight and moonlight, and the light of evenstar below in diamond ambiance. The Anduin flows like stores of jewels falling over itself.

Gimli and Eomer are fighting over dinner, again, dimly heard in the background of Legolas’ mind. Eomer still believes Galadriel could not be the most beautiful lady in the world.

“I must go for my axe,” says Gimli.

“But first I will plead this excuse,” replies Éomer. “Had I seen her in other company, I would have said all that you could wish. But now I will put Queen Arwen Evenstar first, and I am ready to do battle on my own part with any who deny me. Shall I call for my sword?’

Legolas is by now listening fully, his shoulders unnaturally rigid and clear eyes clouded and forlorn. 

“Nay, you are excused for my part, lord,” Gimli concedes. “You have chosen the Evening; but my love is given to the Morning.” He looks to Legolas briefly, concern etched into the wrinkles at his eyes. “And my heart forebodes that soon it will pass away for ever."

Legolas had always loved the way the greenest leaves burned golden yellow in afternoon light. This yellow-ness, unshining - no matter how kind - in twilight.

So Legolas realizes how he has forsaken the morning for so much night.

The night Estel and Evenstar unite, he reads the maps of Fangorn (the same Gimli has long laid out in his room) like they are urgent messages from the past.

-

He tries to leave, even against the commands of the King, when Arwen Undomiel finds him. 

He is at that same bannister at the Houses of Healing when she comes and takes his hand into her own, and smiles kindly upon him.

Her eyes are full of starlight as she warms his hand, and her words glide past like pure glacial breeze.

“ _Gi nathlam hí_.”

He bows his head.

She doesn’t ask him to stay. She doesn’t tell him that Aragorn will decide when he goes, but all the same Legolas stills himself.

Long after she’s left, he feels her presence, and knows she does not feel the despair or anger that threatens to dissolve him. And he remembers who he is. Prince of Mirkwood, elf of green tree - no human bent by desire. So he will stay Legolas, and so he will go.

\--

Their party moves together this way for a long while. Falling apart while Aragorn holds on.

At last, one morning, Frodo asks for leave, and the King cannot say no.

They depart, all of them, and only once along the trail are they compelled enough to separate. Legolas and Gimli, off to the Glittering Caves as was promised. Aragorn seems to allow it only because Legolas does not really want to go, and Gimli gloats in his defeat.

When they return, the party begs to know every detail, but Legolas is absolutely silent.

“Only Gimli has words fit to speak of it.”

Gimli, often stirred by pity for the elf that no other dares to feel, sets their parting ahead: “Now therefore let us go to Fangorn and set the score right!”

And so from Deeping-coomb they ride until Treebeard, the old friend, booms slow and warm once more in their presence. In the Ent-home, where they had once traveled with great passion, they all make farewells to return home - all save Legolas, who insists, “Come, Gimli! Now by Fangorn’s leave I will visit the deep places of the Entwood and see such trees as are nowhere else to be found in Middle-earth. You shall come with me and keep your word; and thus we will journey on together to our own lands in Mirkwood and beyond.” 

Only now to the voice of Legolas, which had been silent for days since, speaks Aragorn in turn: “Here then at last comes the ending of the Fellowship of the Ring.” Looking only to him, he adds, “Yet I hope that ere long you will return to my land with the help that you promised.”

The elf stares back but speaks not. Gimli fills the void with promises Legolas is not prepared to fulfill.

“We will come, if our own lords allow it.” Gimli turns to Merry and smacks him hard on the back. “Well, farewell, my hobbits! You should come safe to your own homes now, and I shall not be kept awake for fear of your peril. We will send word when we may, and some of us may yet meet at times; but I fear that we shall not all be gathered together ever again.”

“ _Boe i 'waen_ ,” says Legolas, with false whimsy, until his eyes rest on the hobbits and cannot help but be filled with sincerity. “Good luck.”

He turns, but does not miss the voice of Aragorn as he leaves.

“ _Nîr tôl erin baded lîn._ ”

They part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gi nathlam hí - you are welcome here  
> legolas says - i must go  
> aragorn says that common goodbye that legolas said earlier abt weeping when u part


	14. fangorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bffs :-)

Legolas always thought the water would call like a siren: intoxicating and alluring. But it called like a mother. 

Like it wanted him to come home for dinner, and sing him lullabies.

This was odd for many reasons. For one, it subverted his expectations. Though young for an elf, it was in his nature to be unsurprised. Any new sensation or sound was a revelation - a sharp spike, slicing in.

What confused him more is that he should not know the feeling. 

Perhaps as a child, she had sung to him, but before Legolas had even aged a year, she was gone. Thranduil discussed her like a long lost queen of the past - a character only in legends. 

This was not wrong. Legolas remembers poring over scrolls to learn more of her; her name was written centuries before his father’s, so she had seen at least thousands of years in Middle Earth.

Legolas must have been the smallest blip for her, in that cycle of life, death, and living again.

He learned it, maybe, from the hobbits, then. This feeling of warmth and hearth. Mirkwood was a damp and cool place, and green dominated his life. This sudden red, pink, and crimson - at first jarring - softened him. 

All this to say: he wants to go home. He wants to have one.

He feels it here, with Gimli, as their sojourn loses its sheen of fascination. It’s morning, and they stand at the edge of the forest, packing the last time before the edge of Fangorn.

The adventure, once succeeded, loses its meaning. Without threat, without wonder, there’s only one thing to do. 

“Then, it’ll be back to the mines for me, soon,” says Gimli, gruff and unremarkable - casual. Yes, off to the mines. Adventure over.

Legolas smiles back gently. “Very well, Gimli son of Gloin.”  
  
The dwarf nods a moment. Grunts. Coughs. 

“Well, it is not fit for you, but you are welcome to come nonetheless, if -”

“I survived the caverns of the dead much better than you, if you remember.”

“It’s not the same!”  
  
He laughs. “You are right.” He slings his bag across their horse, and looks to him. “It is not.”

“Where next for you, lad?”  
  
“I have the whole of Middle Earth left to uncover, and beyond!” He laughs gaily, forcefully. “I am not so eager to settle as you.”  
  
Gimli nods. “Mm. What’s left of this place that you have yet unseen?” Legolas hops on, and extends his hand out to him.

They pull with one great force up, and Gimli throws himself over the body of the horse. Once he’s gained his bearing and settled behind Legolas, he looks out at the light coming in at the edge of the forest.

“I am not so sure I’d like to go back.”

The horse’s hooves sound like heavy heads hitting the pillow after a long day, plush against the damp dirt and green leaves.

“Once my work is done, they’ll have enough to mine in those caves for centuries!”

Out the edge, the morning light hits them with its half-golden, half-silver light. It looks like the moon hasn’t quite given up, and the sun is clinging on. 

“After it’s done, I should like to slice a few more orc necks.”

“If only there were some left for you, Gimli.”

Gimli nods, but does not respond, and they fade into an easeful silence.

“In Valinor,” begins Legolas, slow, and just loud enough to be heard, “the two trees, Laurelin and Telperion once rose up, high enough to make the Argonath small.”

Their silhouette swishes back and forth against the rising sun.

“While they grew, the day was twelve hours. But the two trees each glowed with their dew for seven. Thus, for a short time each day, they would meet. And the dawn would shine with both Laurelin’s golden light, and Telperion’s silver sheen.”  
  
The plains seem to grow before them the longer they ride in, but Legolas remembers the land. It was here that he, Gimli, and Aragorn met Eomer. His bones then burned like fire, but blood flowed through like a cool stream. They were sprinting endlessly, and yet deep inside he had felt absolute peace.

Now it feels quite the opposite. His body feels liquid and detached, and underneath he broils with restlessness.

“In his malevolence, Melkor struck the trees, and had the great mother of Shelob, Ungoliant, devour their last light.

“But as they had nursed the original lights into trees before, the great Aratars Yavanna and Nienna saved their seeds to make the sun and the moon.”

They are in that peaceful state of travel where a story may go as slow as it likes, and the rhythm of movement eases them gently on.

After awhile, they can see the blip in the distance - those once ravaged remains of the village Wold being now rebuilt after orc-raids and Ent warring alike.

“You have seen Telperion’s likeness in Gondor. He was a favorite of the Valar; for this, they planted another in his likeness, though it did not shine. Its seeds came across to this land, and one came into the hands of Isildur.

“If the White Tree of Gondor is only a pale replica of Telperion, I should be glad to see it in person.”

The plains turn yellow as morning grows toward afternoon, and bright pops of green grass emerge throughout the fields.

“Before I met the good Lady of Lorien, I would n’er have believed anything to shine brighter than diamond,” Gimli responds in turn, his voice tinged with that childlike wonder that makes Legolas especially fond of him.“Now I can not doubt the skill of the elves in anything so much.”

Legolas laughs, this time fully, as himself and no other mask. “I am dearly glad to hear it, though we elves have no such skill with gems and rocks except perhaps old Feanor.”

“There is no need! When you have dew that shines brighter than stars.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

Afternoon rolls in like a tide up, around, and behind them, and chasing them into night. Legolas, at least, can see the sparse torches of the Rohan settlement now, as twilight creeps in.

Wold is their parting place. Midway, almost exactly, between their domains. Legolas will split north to Mirkwood, and Gimli south to the White Mountains, the new Lord of the Glittering Caves.

They arrive before night consumes them, a friendly navy sky still lighting their way. For better or worse, they are royalty. More: legend. Though the village is mostly scaffolding and builders, they are given a warm fire, food, drink, and even song. 

Yet perhaps they have grown anti-social. They give their thanks and leave to bed, and beg for no service in the morning. They will be gone before dawn has laid its first glance.

They opt to sleep outside, the air just cool enough to feel fresh in the summer breeze. The sky is so dense with stars out in the plains that it takes a moment for Legolas to identify the constellations he learned from his youth, they all being dotted with extra light.

But at last: Menelmacar, Wilwarin -

“Durin’s Crown,” mutters Gimli, sitting beside him. “It’s like a jewel.” 

“Valacirca,” Legolas confirms. “And the Sickle to the hobbits.” He and Aragorn challenged each other’s knowledge, late into vigils. Mostly Legolas let him tell tales about the stars. He could see how being an outsider had made Aragorn eager. Though centuries younger, and Rivendellian by name and not blood, Aragorn devoured their history, etymology, astrology - beyond any peers.

“Young Frodo had seen it with me, in the lake Mirrormere,” explains Gimli. “I was glad to know - even with Moria gone, and Durin forsaken - the crown still shone bright.”

Aragorn had told him the tale, though he must’ve known it was nothing new. They had exhausted much of the night sky by then, somehow, and now the only constellation all of Middle Earth knew remained. It was in the early days of the fellowship, full of despair and overwhelming hope. He told him how Valacirca was made by the Varda to warn of Melkor’s downfall. The end of all evil.

“You understand it well, then, Gimli. It was made to comfort the weary.”

“Then it’ll one day be meaningless, I hope,” says Gimli abruptly. “No weary to comfort.”

Legolas laughs. He does this much more with Gimli around.

He feels the warmth of companionship. He feels the comfort of the stars.

So, he thinks, he must be quite weary.

He turns on his side to face Gimli. “Better yet the night sky were a void with that logic! If you’re worried of weariness, go to sleep.”

“Aye, aye,” he grumbles back. They turn back to back.

Shuffle. Wind. Huff.

“Are there different stars in Valinor?”

“It is maybe the only thing to stay the same between these worlds.”

“Hm.”

Legolas closes his eyes once more.

“I should still like to see them, I think. To make sure.”

It is quiet, but Legolas is laughing again.

“ _Losto mae_.”

They rest.

-

In the morning, Gimli does not go south. Instead, they head north to Lorien and receive the blessing of Galadriel.

Though they set no date, Legolas will not be alone; one day, together, Gimli and Legolas will sail West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> losto mae - rest


	15. gardening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> unexpected eowyn content, even for me

Legolas does not stay long in Mirkwood, which cannot comfort him; Thranduil urges him to go West, but he cannot offer any explanation except that he cannot.

Thus, when the Faramir writes asking that the elves help build Ithilien, Thranduil sends him eagerly south and asks him, above all, to be well.

He’s glad he’s come. Ithilien is untamed and wild with nature, heavy scented with moist blossoms and high dewy grass. The forests here are laced and entangled into each other as if the branches dance, and the elves who have followed his path make it - almost - a home.

They are happy in each others’ company. Only no friend has such heart as Gimli. Alas. 

The seat of Ithilien, also, is warm and welcome. Soon after his arrival, Eowyn and Faramir ask that he visit and dine. This becomes regular, and pleasant, and it does not take long for Legolas to glean that Eowyn had asked for him. She looks at him with the same pity his own eyes betrayed back in Dunharrow. With time enough, they warm with friendship more.

Some dinners and visits span months and then a year, or another. He hears the King and Queen have a daughter, Caleni. She is named after the Elfstone that announced the return of the King. 

After their first child, Elessar goes South. Legolas and Eowyn stay alone in Ithilien as he and Faramir campaign in the southern borderlands. They talk of plants, and gardens. Though Legolas insists he has no need of it, Eowyn methodically sketches out the gardens of Minas Tirith as he describes them. They spend many days like this, and only rarely does she speak of anything but greenery with him.

Frodo comes up, briefly, one day, however. There’s news he is leaving Middle Earth.

“It is a shame,” she says, “that such a fine person should suffer so much.” She looks up from her parchment, mid-scribble. “They say he cannot shake the pain of his prior wounds.”

“He will do well across the Sea, then,” Legolas assures. “No pain lasts where the light of Aman shines.”

She nods, and seems about to ask - especially as she can see it now wrought on his face, that contemplation - but doesn’t. They are leaving - Frodo, Bilbo, Gandalf, even Galadriel and Elrond - at long last to heal. Yet he stays behind to sit and speak with her.

“You must come and view the gardens one day, as they will now be your work also.”

Eowyn smiles brightly at him and eagerly gasps: “A trip!”

-

By the time Faramir and Aragorn are done and have made their way to Emyn Armen, Legolas and Eowyn are already at the edge of Minas Tirith, where the once-black wall looms, rebuilt in white.

The Queen herself welcomes them, and they spend many sun-soaked days carrying soil and seed up from the fields of Pelennor through the winding streets of the city. People stare at them as they go, unusual blonde dancers amongst the blacksmiths and farmers, but they are welcome. Unusual, and welcome.

Not too unlike the dinners they have - Eowyn, Arwen, and Legolas, sparse across a long dining table. Unusual but not unwelcome. Arwen speaks softly and slow, and asks only what is exactly right. Legolas remains silent, mostly, as Eowyn rattles on with excitement about the gardens - and also Faramir, post-war economics, the intricacies of the Free Shire decree, and anything else that delights her passion in that moment.

Arwen nods, engaged and open to it all, and says every once and awhile, “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” as if she is truly grateful, and she is.

She lets Legolas stay silent, and he is grateful too.

-

They spend nearly a summer like this. Faramir sends for them often; he and Aragorn are kept south by treaties with the new lands. They await their return, but Eowyn sends back the same: they are kept by the urgent business of the King’s gardens.

Only Eowyn and Faramir write.

In Legolas’ head, they will pass the same trail with such speed that it will be absolutely painless, but this is expecting too much. One will go first, and it turns out it is Aragorn.

He knows because he hears him one morning, while out in the forests flung at the edges of the fields, seeking athelas for the garden. Not him, but the trumpets, better. The great orchestra that accompanies a King coming home.

He takes his time, then, and doesn’t come back till the sun is almost red at the horizon line. Eowyn is waiting at the edge of the city for him. Relief floods her visage when she sees him approaching, and she cries his name. “Legolas!”

She comes out and grabs his arm, and they walk too-quickly up. “The King is back. With my Faramir, of course. We will dine.” Her grip goes tight. “But maybe it is too late to dine?” She is rambling now. “Should I ask them if it’s too late?”

He laughs coolly, and holds her hand in his, pulling her off him gently. “Of course we will dine with them.”

She nods, uncertain, but says “Yes! Of course!” anyway, and hurries off to change.

When she has left, Legolas sits down. While the sun sets red, the sky itself is thick with an ambient yellow, and the air is mild and warm. The Houses of Healing are very different now. He is surrounded entirely by deep, rich brown and verdancy.

Just beyond the herb garden and rose bushes, he can see a little of that balcony where they last held each other. The view is much better than it was then.

He sits awhile, till the last drip of sun falls through the sieve, and stands up. 

He is glad to see an old friend.

-

That summer building the gardens is the last of the warm nights they spend together.

There is no awkwardness, or discomfort, and it reminds Legolas of the gardens themselves. While they belonged in the forest, even uprooted here in the marble and brick the plants are beautiful. Even though they had such limited space to grow, they were healing.

They laugh together, and mourn the fellowship in other moments. And then, Legolas, Eowyn, and Faramir go home.

Aragorn insists Legolas must come back and keep watch of the gardens, so every autumn, he does. He stays a week tending greenery, mentoring the stewards of the land, and preparing them for first frost. Then he dines with the King and Queen each night. They talk about old times awhile, and then present conflicts and policies, and sometimes about nothing in particular: which King of old was most orc-like (certainly the bachelor Tarannon), or which herb was best for their meal.

Arwen listens joyfully, and though she rarely offers her own interjections - they are always well-timed and illuminating when they are made.

In time, there are four daughters. Legolas knows them all by name, and the oldest already calls him Uncle.

Then, in the fifteenth Autumn since the departure of the Ringbearer, Aragorn tells him they are leaving to build Annuminas.

They don’t discuss it much, instead opting to argue bitterly over arrows versus spear, when Arwen at last, as the argument reaches banality, says so softly, “We will surely need gardens in Annuminas, Legolas. Will you not visit still?”

Their eyes break to look at her. Legolas pauses a moment, but inhales slow, and bows. “Of course, Lady.”

Aragorn looks at Arwen, and his eyes are wide with admiration. 

-

In Annuminas, five years later, they have their first son.

Thranduil seems to think an heir will now be enough for Legolas to leave, but he does not. Still he asks, perhaps every decade or so:

“When do you sail West, my son?”

It’s not that Legolas can’t smell the salt on the breeze. In Ithilien, the Sea breeze is all surrounding.

He could explain he has dinner in Annuminas, that he puts off destiny for two months in the year, when he travels north. Two weeks alone traveling up, and two back. For this alone they demand he stay at least a month, and a month is just as much as he can handle.

And after a month, he does - truly - want to go home.

If it weren’t for the cold trip back, alone and watching the leaves die, Legolas might ride straight to the Grey Havens and set sail. But it is that first day alone that he remembers the missing, and remembers he cannot stay too far. 

Except that Gimli is mortal and aging, Legolas ignores the urgency of others around him. Even Eowyn, once blonde and now greying, tells him he must go some day. That she will not be here long to keep him company.

For a few years, he nods and assures her he knows. Her son Elboron keeps her off his back for some time. But in another few years, he is grown, too, and wondering.

Each year there is less left.

When she is all grey and tired, he sings her to sleep.


	16. annuminas

“If I were immortal, perhaps I’d have done things differently.” Aragorn takes a sip of wine. “But men must make more men, else we die out.”

Legolas nods sagely, looking out over the lake Evendim and the verdant hills beyond, high enough to be softened by mist and cloud. They are perched high over the edge of the water, on one of the many lofted balconies composing the backside of the palace of Annuminas.

It was odd to think this does not exist some decades ago, or more besides perhaps. If he has to think of numbers, it must be over a century since Elessar took the throne - more than enough for men to etch statues out of a whole mountain of marble. And in another century, perhaps, it would be gone.

Either way, Legolas has a feeling he will not be here to see the day.

“Eldarion looks well.” 

A low chuckle echoes behind him. “He looks much better than I, and is nearly as wise already.” Legolas turns to see him smile, looking down thoughtfully. “He takes after his mother.”

“He is younger than his sisters, and it shows,” responds Legolas - not unkindly. He is dressed differently than usual - looking more an elder now than a wanderer; long silver robes melt along the marble floor as he takes a seat beside him. “But with Numenorian and Elven blood, he will have many years more to learn than others.”

Aragorn’s eyes flick up to meet his. “Then you will continue to guide him?”

The elf nods easefully, and humor fills his voice. “When he is willing to be guided, stubborn as he is. He must be the same age you were when we first met, and yet he seems lifetimes younger.”

“He has not spent a single moment of his life lost, as the Rangers lived their lives before the passing of Sauron.” A shade crosses over his face. It is still high and strong and set, but many more wrinkles cut through, like deep crags and cliffs. “Though he is strong, he would not know what to do if strife befell him.”

“I will always make his audience as long as I remain on Middle Earth.”

Legolas can feel how his words do not soothe him as they should. Where the sun is setting a brilliant orange into Evendim outside, Legolas alone catches the burning light before it settles deep. Aragorn pulls back into the purple haze of twilight invading the room.

“You wander some new Path of the Dead in your mind, Strider.”

Aragorn turns his head from him sharply, that curtain of chestnut brown long since peppered with silver streaks, falling upon him now.

“I will have lived two centuries next spring.” He is right. While dates of birth fling by without notice for elves, this is the only one Legolas fails to forget. March 1st, when winter finally begins to give up.

“It has been years since my last battle, Legolas. I am beginning to think I may not see another.” He sighs, and, as often happens when he is beseeched by greater emotion, his voice fills with Rivendellian lilt: “My duty is reaching its end.”

The elf looks like he did over plains of Rohan so many years ago - suddenly fierce, shoulders back and eyes sharply intent upon him. Aragorn glances briefly to acknowledge the change and bears on.

“Even my people spoke of Numenor like a legend. A star in the great ocean, where the light of Telperion and Laurelin shone still over the Pelori mountains from Aman. My ancestors prospered along the great rivers Siril and Nunduine, and the coasts, and between them forests full of wildlife unseen still in Middle Earth. Nimloth the Fair, grandfather to the white tree now in Gondor, grew tall in the court of Armenelos.

“It only took one shadow, and the greatest kingdom of men fell to jealousy and greed, and the island of Numenor was written into legend as Mar-nu-Falmar, the land beneath the waves.”

Legolas knows all of this, and not for centuries of living alone. It is nearly a nursery rhyme of those near Rivendell, the home of Numenor’s descendants. An early lesson on how the glory and defeat of men laid alone in their hands.

“Meneltarma has long drowned, but perhaps in death…”

“Gandalf foretold that old lands would rise, dear Strider.”

Aragorn stares at him, eyes searching his own. 

“When you must leave this realm, you must then also go to rebuild Numenor; so when Eru Illuvatar raises it once more, the West will know that the Great King Elessar shepherded the land, and bore each stone to the shrine Meneltarma.”

Something catches in Aragorn’s throat - the great shock of relief bubbling out. “And so you will watch Eldarion?”

Legolas lowers his gaze. Aragorn’s hand is near him, outstretched across the table, his thumb worrying tightly against his index finger in a fist. 

“I have long told you I must sail West, Elessar.”

“For a century now, yes, Legolas, I know well!” His arm shoots up now as he revives with the vivacity still left him. His forlornness almost seems a ruse now, with how eagerly he snaps up in vexation. “Each summer, you tell me, and here I find you each September, or October, maybe, when you wish to see me suffer longer, in the halls with my daughters unannounced.” His hands strike forward as if to prove some point: “I only know because I see them suddenly in Mirkwood or Ithilien braids, unlike what they or their maids know how to do.”

“A century is nothing for an immortal.”

“You know well you are one of the last of the Third Age. Elrond said it was like mortal men avoiding sleep. That his eyes grew heavy and weary, and his bones yearned to leave.”

Legolas listens silently.

“And here you remain.”

And nods.

“Do you not yearn for it? How I dream of Numenor?” The energy fades, soon replaced by tired confusion. “Are the forests of Ithilien so fair?”

Legolas lays his hand across the table, palm up. His fingers rest open like branches, reaching up, yet gently weighed, as if by leaves. Aragorn hesitates a brief moment, and offers his own begrudgingly. And sighs.

Legolas presses lightly. “I will leave when I must, just as you do. As I longed for the sea since Pelargir, before the end of the Third Age, you have yearned for Numenor before blood flowed through you.”

Aragorn rubs his face with his other hand before resting upon it to look back.

“They will never know how skilled we were at waiting.”

Legolas smiles. “And yet here we are.”

The second thick, rough palm envelopes Legolas’ as Aragorn looks at him deeply, warmly - as passionate as one may be in their waning years - and smiles back.

“ _Alae_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alae - behold, the first word the elves ever spoke looking at the stars


	17. legacy

Legolas feels it in the court of Ithilien.

It is the end of February, and he has come to share between the elves and men of Ithilien as they do each season. Each day is filled with maps, and census counts, trade and treaties, and then each night is spent intimately, in the humble wooden home they call the seat of Ithilien.

The Prince Elboron is just like his father Faramir, and is fierce with his kindness. By firelight, in the evenings, he tells his son Barahir about the fiery woman Eowyn, his grandmother, and the great King Elessar, and his wife, an Elven princess from a region far north. Barahir is a young adult now - somehow - but he listens just like a child. He is not a warrior like his father or grandparents before him. He writes poetry, and begs Legolas to sing at every visit.

Elboron, at every pause in the tale, looks to Legolas, to see if he will be corrected, but Legolas always bows his head to continue on. The legend is just as true, often.

Barahir is asking Legolas to tell him, again, how King Elessar had led like a torch through the Paths of the Dead, when he feels it, right in that cavity of the chest where a heart should be. A deep wringing, and emptiness.

He looks sharply left, toward the windows, who reveal little even to his eyes in this deep night. The cold whipping winds of winter have long slowed down, and tonight the air is still, and slowly warming.

These are the first signs of the coming of spring.

“Legolas?” asks Elboron.

He stands up quickly. He knows too well something is wrong, and Elboron does not doubt him.

They ride that night.

So a century goes a day, and a day lasts a century: riding north to Minas Tirith to catch the King’s dying breath. When they arrive it is night, and the Gates to the city are closed.

The Prince Eldarion meets them at the Gate, but they cannot see him: Aragorn will take his last breath with Arwen.

And maybe that is the only way it should be.

So Legolas sits in the gardens. The soil is still chilled with frost, and Aragorn is high above him dying. 

“Uncle.” Eldarion comes and embraces him. Legolas is grieved to find he has grown into a man. “I’m sure my father would want to say goodbye, but even I cannot-”

“It is all as it should be, Eldarion. Do not worry for my feelings.”

Eldarion nods and looks around them, as if to find some different answer. Though Minas Tirith is not new to him, it is not his home, and the fields of Pelennor around them are an ever-growing plain.

“He wanted to come here to die. He told us a few days ago that it was time, and put everything in order. Except I do not know what to do once he is gone.”

“You will rule,” says Legolas, leading him to the ledge. As always with time, everything and nothing has changed. “And steward the land, as your father has.”

“I will not rule yet.” Eldarion has his mother’s eyes; sharp and seeking, they seem to devour the horizon. “I will not rule till my mother has passed.”

And this is how he knows he is their son. It is also a reminder that perhaps things can change, though slowly and at times pathetically when left in human hands. But even Aragorn did not seem so good as Eldarion is now before him, for Eldarion is the product of so much more love.  
  
“Then for now, you must find love, and make an heir, and establish the line of Kings.”  
  
“I will find love myself, but as for the line, my father has named it. He told us on the way here - among many matters of state.” He turns and looks to Legolas. “‘ _Telcontar,'_ he told me.”

Legolas cannot help but smile.

Eldarion was only taught Sindarin; and this Quenya term is far too obscure to know.

“Do you know what it means, Uncle?”

If it were any day but today, he would laugh.

“Strider,” he answers. “It means Strider.”

-

Legolas goes straight for the mouth of the Sea along the great Anduin. They had never quite discussed when they’d leave, but Gimli tells him he has already made his farewells in the Glittering Caves, and he knows.

He thinks of Elboron and, mostly, Barahir. He was composing an epic about the great Aragorn and Arwen, and did not know the end.

He requests a quill and parchment and writes briefly; it is his last legacy in Middle Earth. 

Gimli has not looked up once all day. He looks like he has lost a son.

They do not see the sun in the sky, just the deep and darkening grey that fills the east, brooding above the land Legolas leaves in Ithilien. Their ship sails too quickly through; farewell, Emyn Armen. Lay to rest the memory of fair Eowyn and Faramir. To their right Pelargir, ports full and bustling even as winter remains. The last mortal man to see the ghost fleet has long since passed. 

“I should have seen Lorien one more time,” says Gimli at last. “For the Lonely Mountain is too far.”

“You will soon see forests fairer than Lorien herself.”

The West does not seem as welcome as he hoped. Perhaps because out there the sun is dying.

“I will be happy to see Frodo again, and Gandalf.” 

“And the lady Galadriel,” says Legolas wryly.

But Gimli does not splutter or deny with rosy cheeks. Instead, he grows more solemn. “To that great Lady, I will forever remain in the greatest debt.”

“No one is more deserving, Gimli.”

The dwarf looks up, and his eyes are the clear as fresh dew. 

He hopes Barahir will finish the poem. Strider’s name, then, will be more than King, and Battler. He will be a legend for being a Lover, and Ranger. Healer.

And maybe one day, in a different time, as all this goodness builds and transcends itself, they will feel ready to write legends for other loves, no less significant. Maybe Barahir’s line will continue on, and on, and the next poet will write about starcrossed lovers, immortal and mortal - or, a King in love with one who cannot give an heir.

Unlike men, Legolas is not worried. Though such kindness seems impossible now, it is prophecy. That one day goodness will win its greatest battle.

He wonders, rather, what Barahir’s heir might say. When such a time has come. Perhaps,  
  


_As hope grew back in Middle Earth,  
_ _Estel was seen again;  
_ _Though lost in death, still evermore,  
_ _the King of Mortal Men._

_So once the lands of Numenor  
_ _Rose ‘gain as lore foretold,  
_ _There stood that lonely Dunedain,  
_ _On one of five starred shore;_

_He labored ‘lone and built the land,  
_ _till Meneltarma rang,  
_ _from Carn Dum to Ithilien:  
_ _“Return ye, long lost men!”_

_And for the call of Elessar,  
_ _Long Elfstone laid in wait,  
_ _upon the land Eressea,  
_ _as Ulmo of Second Age_

_Thus Greenlief ferried home,  
_ _Great Gondor and his kin,  
_ _So old friends met in Numenor;  
_ _So great love washed its sin._

_So Death meets Life, and may again,  
_ _Save souls of lesser men;  
_ _So stories drowned by fate may rise,  
_ _and Longing lay its head._

_Thus Elessar and Elfstone meld,  
_ _in onyx-emerald blend;_  
_Thus Kingdom of Men live on;  
__& all is well then, in the end._

Legolas is humming. He stops and remembers where he is. His hand rests on the metal lining of the ship’s rail. Aragorn is marble behind them.

Gimli stares out at the swirl of navy sky and deep blue sea, and urges:

“Sing, Legolas.”


	18. epilogue

When Aragorn awoke, the world was darkness.

His soul was undisturbed. He could feel the great canopy of the forest above him, and hear its heavy rustle like a low hymn. 

Vigor flowed through his veins once more; destiny once more called to him like the blow of the horn.

With night above and soil below, he worked silently. Rock by heavy rock carried methodically toward the center of the island.

Perhaps eons later, he picks up that last heavy block, and moves surely up. He feels the exposed ocean winds swirl eagerly around him as he drops it with a thud.

Meneltarma is done.

There is no earthquake, breaking, or sudden shaft of light, but his soul is calm. And he is so good at waiting.

He sits and stares out at the eastern horizon. Surely, the dawn breaks for the New Age of Man. 

At the edge of light, where the sun rises in the distance, the ferry of legend wades slowly - quietly, in.

What psychopomp steers such a ship is nearly never known, but Aragorn has the deepest pleasure of knowing this guide. Perhaps there had been no shaft of light, but there is a daring shock of blonde as the ship comes through.

And Aragorn laughs, deeply. Wildly. Just awe remaining.

“ _Alae!”_ he bellows, as Legolas sprints up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all, folks ! thanks for reading !!


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